


Star Wolves: A New Bite

by elizaham8957



Series: Star Wolves [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also let it be known I'm tagging this as Stydia but it's most definitely a slow burn, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, And there will be not-so-platonic bed sharing along the way, F/M, I feel like that should sum it up, It's a Star Wars AU guys okay, We'll get there folks don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: It is a period of civil war. Rebel spaceships, striking from a hidden base, have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Empire.During the battle, Rebel spies managed to steal secret plans to the Empire's ultimate weapon, the Death Star, an armored space station with enough power to destroy an entire planet.Pursued by the Empire's sinister agents, Princess Lydia races home aboard her starship, custodian of the stolen plans that can save her people and restore freedom to the Galaxy...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WOW. Okay, so, I've been working on this fic literally since The Force Awakens came out, so it feels surreal that I'm finally posting it. A bit of background-- there are gonna be three stories and a one shot in this series, all of which are already written. I should hopefully be posting one chapter a week! 
> 
> There's nothing I really love as much as Teen Wolf other than Star Wars, so this felt like an appropriate AU for me to write. (Plus, I feel bad for Stiles, because his friends refuse to watch Star Wars with him.) I tried my very best to make this so that you don't have to know ANYTHING about Star Wars for the story to make sense, but if you are familiar with the movies, that wouldn't hurt. 
> 
> A million billion thanks to my wonderful sister (magicath17 on tumblr and here) for listening to my ramblings, encouraging my writing, and reading the disastrous first draft. This never would have gotten finished if it weren't for you. A huge thanks to Allison (im2old4thisotp on here, twitter, and tumblr) for being my beta and helping clean this mess up. Your opinion means the world to me and I'm so grateful you read this for me :) 
> 
> (A side note-- whoever can find the most Teen Wolf quotes in this wins a prize, because... there are a lot. This fic got a little campy, which, you know, is probably appropriate for Star Wars.) 
> 
> I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you ever want to come gush about Stydia! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

The whole ship was shaking.

She knew what it meant— the Imperial troops that had been chasing them down ever since they intercepted those plans had finally caught up, and any minute, stormtroopers were going to blast through the door and take prisoner everyone in sight.

She knew how the Empire worked— get what they want now, ask questions later. But the Rebel Alliance had worked too hard, put too many in danger, lost too many lives to give up so quietly. She knew her troops wouldn't go down without a fight— but they didn't matter, not really. She had the plans. She had the mission. She was the one that the fate of the Rebellion rested with.

She heard something suddenly— she thought it was stormtroopers, but quickly recognized it, from the tinny voice, as one of the protocol droids on board her ship. Peeking around the corner, she saw the gold droid round a corner and disappear, followed by an R2 unit. A plan suddenly came to her— it was crazy, barely half-formulated— but if _she_ couldn't finish her mission, maybe this droid could. She had the plans, but she still needed their greatest weapon: an old, powerful, forgotten ally, unknown to the Empire. If the droid got the plans to him, and he could get to Alderaan... She knew they were over Tatooine right now, where he was hiding. She had been so close...

If this droid could do it, the Rebellion would be saved. She needed to reach Derek Kenobi. He was her only hope.

She peeked around the corner slowly, her heart pounding. In all her years of fighting the Empire, both in the senate and from behind battle lines, she had never felt more terrified than she did right now. These plans could alter the fate of the galaxy. It was now or never.

The R2 unit was still there in the corridor, as if it was waiting for her. She slipped over quickly, the file with the plans grasped in her sweaty hand, hoping upon all stars this worked.

If there was one thing Princess Lydia Organa was good at, it was not giving up.

Well, that, and timing.  

Barely a minute after she gave the droids the plans, Stormtroopers crowded the hallway and grabbed her. She tried to fight back, attempting to knock their grip off her arms, but realized soon it was pointless— there was nowhere to go, and their armor was not susceptible to her elbows.

As soon as they started dragging her down the hall, she could tell who they were taking her to.

Sure enough, she spotted him at the end of the hall— black mask and helmet obscuring his face completely, his cape just barely brushing the ground of her starship. The stormtroopers shoved her around the corner, and Lydia’s face blanched when the entire scene in front of her became visible— Vader had the captain of her ship pinned against the wall, heavy gloved hand tight around the captain’s neck, his feet dangling a foot off the ground. Lydia felt terror wash over her as the life drained from the face of her captain, his breath sputtering and dying out. Vader dropped the lifeless corpse to the floor of the ship callously, a sickening thud ringing through the hallways. He turned to face her, and Lydia swallowed, trying to contain her terror.

“Darth Vader,” Lydia said coolly, looking her captor in the face. Behind him, stormtroopers stood among the bodies of her crew members, sprawled dead on the floor, scorching blaster marks decorating their uniforms. Her entire crew slaughtered, her captain dead— stormtroopers everywhere, Vader right in front of her— there was no feasible way Lydia was getting out of this one. All she could do was hope that the droids somehow managed to get those plans to the Rebellion. If the Rebellion lived on, what happened to her wouldn’t really matter.

Steeling her nerves, Lydia put on her politician facade, trying to mask her terror at the fact that Darth Vader most _definitely_ knew that she was in possession of the technical readout of his new battle station. “You can't do this, you know,” she informed him, trying to sound more powerful than she felt. “If the Senate gets word that you attacked a diplomatic ship—”

“Quiet, princess,” he replied, his tone even and mechanical. She could hear his breaths, rasping through his mask, which was unnerving. Lydia felt like she was speaking to a machine, not a human being. “We know you intercepted the plans. Where are they?”

She gave him a look that hopefully conveyed indifference and slight confusion, and not the actual terror she felt. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she snapped back. “I'm on a diplomatic mission to Alderaan—”

“If you’re on a diplomatic mission to _Alderaan,_ then what are you doing over Tatooine?” Vader demanded. “Is your navicomputer broken? You’re on the wrong side of the galaxy.” Lydia opened her mouth to answer, but Vader cut her off. “Drop the act, princess; we saw your ship with the rebel fleet over the Imperial base on Scarif, and we _know_ you intercepted the plans broadcasted from the communications tower there. You’re a Rebel and a traitor,” he accused, pointing a gloved finger at her. He turned to the stormtroopers next to her. “Take her on board, and put her in a cell.” The stormtroopers shoved Lydia down a hallway, forcing her off the ship.

“My Lord,” one of Vader’s commanders said, glancing at Darth Vader. “Unfortunately, she's right. If the senate hears of this—”

“I don't care,” replied Vader. “I want those plans, and I want to know the location of the rebel base.”

The commander pulled a face. “I think she’d rather die than give up that information.”

Vader turned to him. “We'll see, Commander. Torture can prove extremely effective in getting information from unwilling subjects.”

“But— she _is_ just a girl,” the commander said. “She’s barely nineteen years old—”

Vader turned slowly, and though the commander couldn’t see the deathly glare aimed at him, he could feel the chill of it.

“Do I need to start questioning your loyalties?” Vader demanded. “That girl has confidential Imperial information and is a traitor to the galactic senate. She’ll be treated accordingly.”

Another officer approached Vader, saving the commander from further ridicule. “We've checked the whole ship, my lord,” he informed Vader. “There was an evacuation pod launched during the boarding, but there were no signs of life in it. It fell to the planet system below us.”

“Tell me, Officer,” Vader spat, aggravated. “Are plans _alive?”_

The officer swallowed nervously. “No, my lord.”

“Then why didn't you destroy the pod and save us all this trouble?”

“I... uh,” the officer stuttered. “I'm so sorry, my lord.”

“The plans are in that pod,” Vader said, turning away from the incompetent officer and back to the commander. “Tell a unit to go down and investigate. _Find those plans.”_

“Yes, my lord,” the commander said, turning and disappearing down the hallway. Vader turned next to the officer.

“Tell command to send a distress signal. Say everyone was killed. And scrub down every inch of the ship. I want any possible clue discovered. And do _not_ make another stupid mistake, or it will be your last.”

“Of course, my lord,” the officer said, scurrying after the commander.

Darth Vader turned again, and with a swish of the heavy cape, stormed in the direction the princess had been taken. Vader was far from done with _her._

***

It was barely midday, and Scott was already sweating like a bantha.

His father had started them working on their faulty moisture vaporators early this morning, but when neither Scott nor he could figure out what was wrong with them, they had returned to the house, defeated. His mom had made them both lunch, and Scott sat in the cool kitchen, slowly eating his meal. The sooner he finished, the sooner they would be outside in the heat and sand, trying again to get the moisture vaporators to work.

Scott stared out the window as his parents talked, their conversation completely lost on him. The twin suns of his home planet Tatooine were already high in the sky, beating down relentlessly on the sandy dunes that went on for miles. Most of this house was built underground, simply because it was cooler. Scott had been to Mos Espa before, one of the biggest cities on this desolate planet, and had heard tales from rich foreigners of climate-controlled houses on the wealthy core world planets, like Coruscant, that were always pumping in cool air. Scott would give anything to see those places. He'd been stuck in this small, stifling hot house in the middle of the desert his entire life, and he still couldn't tell you why anyone lived on this planet.

They needed to farm _water,_ for stars' sake. That should have been the first warning sign.

“I think we're going to need new droids,” his dad was telling his mom. “We need something to plug into those vaporators and figure out what's wrong, or the harvest this year will be a complete waste. And I can't get by without an R2 unit anymore; I thought I'd be able to manage after the old one broke, but I don't think we can for much longer. With just me and Scott, it's becoming too much.”

Scott bowed his head and pushed his fork around his plate, sensing the underlying meaning in his father’s words. “So I take it that means I can’t go to the Academy next month?”

His dad sighed, looking at him. “As much as we want to send you, Scott, I don’t think we could make it without you here,” he said.

“Next year, hon, okay?” his mom interjected. “I promise.”

As much as Scott loved his parents, he could tell they didn’t really mean it.

“You still want to go to the _Imperial_ Academy?” his dad checked.

“Not for the Empire,” Scott assured him. “I just want to learn to fly better. I’m not going to enlist, or anything.”

Scott meant it, too. He had no love for the Galactic Empire that ruled over all the planets in the galaxy— it was a cruel dictatorship, run by power-hungry politicians who abused their positions and inflicted pain and suffering throughout the galaxy— at least, that's what his mother said, whenever she’d come back from the city with news of the Empire’s latest actions. Out in the desert, without access to the holonews or any other information sources, it was easy to forget there was an entire galaxy of sentient beings beyond the sand dunes.

The Empire had very little jurisdiction out here, anyway. Tatooine was a planet ruled by gangsters— the Hutts, a greedy, selfish race of gigantic slug-like creatures— and the Hutts were unpleasant enough that no one ever seemed willing enough to intervene and do anything. But joining the prestigious Imperial Naval Academy— well, it mainly just offered Scott a way off this planet. His few friends had already gone off to the Academy— his best friend, Harley, being the most notable— and he longed to join her, piloting ships across the galaxy, and seeing every planet he could possibly see. Scott's real father had died when he was a baby, but that was what he had done: flown ships in the Clone Wars, a war nearly twenty years ago that had put the Emperor in charge of the galaxy.

Scott’s parents weren’t his real parents; they were technically his grandparents, but they’d always just been mom and dad to him. His biological parents had been killed in the waning days of the Clone Wars, leaving him a war orphan. He’d been sent back to Tatooine, to the only family he had in the galaxy—his grandmother, Melissa, and her new husband, Noah, had taken him in and raised him as their own. The only thing he had of his real father was the stories Melissa would tell him and his last name—his mother had changed her last name to Stilinski after she married, but she’d left Scott with her maiden name and his father’s last name: Skywalker.

As much as the endless sand dunes and never-ending heat got on Scott’s nerves, he didn’t hate Tatooine, or living with his adoptive parents. He loved their house, his mom and dad, the life they had here. But there was only so much you could do on Tatooine. Scott’s parents had no desire to leave the planet, see everything out there—they were perfectly content to stay here the rest of their lives, which Scott just couldn’t understand. Melissa liked to help people—she was a nurse in Anchorhead, and she would do house calls at all of the neighboring farms—but neither her nor Noah ever wanted to see _more._ Scott _craved_ it, the adrenaline rush in his blood, the prospect of seeing new things, new planets, new people, exploring every crevice of the universe, discovering things no other sentient had seen before. It was like an addictive spice to him, the thought of being off-world— the dark, expansive galaxy beckoned to him at night, the shining stars luring him off to fantasies of exploring all the different systems in the heavens above.

“Scott?” he heard Noah’s voice say. He was pulled from his daydream and looked up to his father. He gave Scott a look. “The Jawas should be coming by with a batch of droids soon. Why don't you go keep a lookout? Let me know when they get close.”

“Sure,” Scott said, looking at his parents. He pushed his dish back and stood up, bounding up the stairs to aboveground, ducking into the bright white heat of the suns.

The second he was gone, Melissa gave her husband a look.

“We can't keep him shut up here forever,” she told him. “He's miserable. We’re gonna have to let him go eventually.”

Noah sighed, taking his wife's hand. “Don’t talk about that. You know just as well as I do that he can’t leave here. It’s too dangerous for him.”  

Melissa sighed. “I know. It kills me though—he wants to see the galaxy. I know that look he has. He’s exactly like his father.”  

“I know,” Noah replied. “That's what I'm afraid of. Scott has too much power for his own good. You know what Derek told us; Vader’ll be able to sense him. _Especially_ if he’s at the Academy. If he stays here—”

“I know, but—” She stopped suddenly, because Scott's footsteps were echoing down the staircase again.

“Dad?” Scott said, sticking his head around the corner. His long hair flopped in his eyes, but Scott impatiently pushed it out of his face. “The Jawas are setting up.”

“Alright,” Noah said, getting up from the table as well. “Let's see what they have.”

Scott followed his dad back up the stairs, both of them disappearing above ground. Scott blinked in the bright sunlight. The Jawas' huge sandcrawler vehicle that they used to transport all their droids loomed against the sandy dunes, towering much higher than the above-ground portions of their small house. The Jawas— tiny, native creatures in mottled brown cloaks that hid everything except their glowing eyes—had unloaded some of their droids for sale right in front of the house. Scott surveyed them all. They looked dusty, and old, and battered— typical of Tatooine. Nothing new ever came to this world, and anything that _did_ look new was quickly worn down and beaten by scorching heat, whipping winds, and endless, endless sand. Scott hoped there were some droids that would work, so they didn’t have to spend all afternoon fumbling and trying to figure out what was wrong with the vaporators.

“Scott!” His mom’s voice echoed from the house. Rushing over to the open-aired atrium, Scott gazed down to where his mom was standing, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight with his hand.

“Yeah?” he called back, looking down at her. She tucked a stray strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear, her brown eyes shining at him as she spoke, like they always did. They were Scott’s favorite part of her. Her clothes, her skin, her body was worn down by sand and wind and heat and grit and hard work, but her eyes still shined brighter than the twin suns above Tatooine.

“Remind your dad to look for a translator droid!” she called up. “There’s a family in Anchorhead with a sick little girl, and my Bocce is pretty rusty.”

Scott nodded at her. “Sure.” He jogged back across the dunes, stopping at his dad’s side. The breeze ruffled at Scott’s hair, blowing a fine dusting of sand over his worn boots. Noah was negotiating with a Jawa, who was trying to pitch a droid to him.

“I know, but that’s not what I need,” he replied. “I'll just look myself—” he broke off, turning back to Scott. “Look at those R2 units, okay?” Scott nodded and surveyed the row. There was a red one on the end that looked promising. “Oh!” he called to his dad. “Mom says remember to check if any of the translator droids speak Bocce.” Noah nodded.

Scott went over and checked the red R2 unit, looking for dents and scratches. For a secondhand droid, it wasn't in horrible condition, certainly no worse than most others here. His dad came over a second later, trailed by a gold protocol droid.

“This one looks fine,” he said, gesturing to the red droid. A jawa hurried over, eager to make the sale.

“Scott,” his dad said, handing the Jawa coins, “take these droids back and clean them up before supper, okay?”

“But— I was gonna go to Tosche station to pick up some power converters,” he said, the hope at salvaging his afternoon dying in his throat.

“Scott, if we don’t get these droids cleaned up, they can’t help with the vaporators tomorrow,” his dad responded. “You get them cleaned up tonight, and you can have all day tomorrow to yourself— you can take the speeder out to Anchorhead, or wherever, and I’ll take the droids out on the farm myself.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed, more than happy at the promise of a day off. “Come on, you two,” he called, beckoning the droids to follow him back to the house. Not even ten feet away from the Jawas, the red R2 unit's top exploded, sending off a jet of smoke. Scott peered at the top, before calling back, “Dad, this droid's got a bad motivator!”

Noah looked back at the Jawas angrily. “What are you trying to sell us here?” he demanded.

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice suddenly said. Scott whipped around, coming face to face with the protocol droid. Its voice was tinny and high, and it sounded like it had a simulated Coruscanti accent. _What’s a droid from the core worlds doing out here?_ Scott wondered, but the droid in question was pointing to a blue R2 unit, rocking back and forth and whistling nervously. “That R2 unit is in prime condition; quite a bargain.”

Scott glanced at the R2 unit, who did not seem happy to be left behind. He did look to be in good shape, despite some carbon scoring across his front.

“Dad, we could get that one,” Scott called, gesturing to the blue one. His dad turned to the Jawa, and soon the blue R2 unit was gliding over to meet them.

“I'm sure you'll be quite satisfied with this one,” the protocol droid said, still rambling on. “He really is a fine droid. I've worked with him before.”

Scott led the droids back to the workshop, the hot breeze sweeping sand across the barren horizon.

***

“Oh, thank the maker! This oil bath is going to feel so good.”

Scott chuckled, messing with something on the R2 unit’s front. His mind was always more at peace when he was fixing things. When his hands were moving, tinkering, he could think clearer. “An astromech, huh?” Scott asked the droid, looking at his serial numbers. “There aren’t many starships out here for you to fix. Sorry, buddy.”

The astromech beeped back at him, but Scott didn’t understand much binary, so he didn’t respond.

“I must agree with Artoo,” The protocol droid piped up in basic, from his oil bath. “Where exactly is here?”

Scott glanced at the droid. “You’re on Tatooine,” he informed him. “If there's a bright spot at the center of the galaxy, this planet would be the farthest from it.”

“I see, sir,” the droid said. Scott chuckled at his formality, still working on the R2 unit.

“You can call me Scott,” he said, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“I see, sir Scott.”

“No, just Scott,” he responded, grinning.

“Of course,” the droid responded. “And I am C-3PO, human cyborg relations. And this is my counterpart, R2-D2.”

The droid Scott was working on beeped in greeting. “Hi,” Scott replied. He continued scrubbing at the front of the droid.

“You've got a lot of carbon scoring here,” he told R2-D2. “Did you guys get caught in a shootout or something?” he joked.

“With all we've been through, it’s a miracle we're in as good condition as we are,” C-3PO responded. “What, with the rebellion and all.”

Scott whipped around, staring at the protocol droid. His stomach had leapt into his throat. “You know about the rebellion against the Empire?” he asked, aghast, looking between both droids in wonder. With the way the Empire ruled the galaxy with an iron fist, it was no secret that most people despised it. But there were whispers— rumors, mostly— of small, fierce bands of rebels fighting for freedom and liberty in the galaxy. The Empire tried to cover up most of the evidence of any rebellion, but things inevitably seeped through the cracks—rumors and stories and victories against the controlling Empire reached even _this_ backwater planet. He and Harley used to dream of going off to the Rebellion, bringing freedom to the people and visiting every planet they could along the way.

He never knew his father, but Scott knew he had died for just that— freedom from oppression. He used to think that if he could never meet his dad, at least he could carry on his legacy.

“Why, yes,” C-3PO said. “That's how we came into your service. We escaped a rebel ship boarded by stormtroopers and landed on this planet, before we were taken by those Jawas.”

Scott completely disregarded the fact that his dad had just purchased two runaway droids, focusing more on the “rebel ship” part.

“So the Rebellion really _is_ real?” he asked, his dark brown eyes full of wonder. “We hear some stuff out here, but it’s mostly rumors.”

“Oh yes,” C-3PO said. “There's really not much to tell, though. I'm merely a translator, and not very good at telling stories.”

Scott turned back to Artoo, crestfallen, but noticed something jammed into one of the droid's ports. It looked like someone had crammed a data file inside it in a hurry. “You've got something stuck in here,” he informed the droid, who whistled back in reply. He jabbed his tool in farther, trying to unstick whatever was jammed in, when Artoo beeped and Scott jumped back, shocked.

A hologram had appeared on the floor, projected by the droid.

It was a girl, very regal and powerful-looking. Her clothes were strange, not like anything people wore on Tatooine— she wore a long, white dress with a hood pulled loosely over her head, her hair twisted into two graceful buns, one on either side of her head. She leaned over and inserted something into the droid— probably the offending data file— before leaning back and checking over her shoulders.

“Help me, Derek Kenobi,” she kept repeating. “You're my only hope.”

“What is this?” Scott asked the droid, staring at the girl in wonder. “Who is she?”

“I'm not sure, sir,” C-3PO responded. “I believe she was someone on our last voyage. Someone of importance, if I recall.”

“She looks it,” Scott breathed. “And she looks scared. She needs help.” He turned to Artoo. “Can you play the whole message back?”

The droid beeped something, and C-3PO responded, annoyed, “Of course you can trust him! He's our new master!” Scott sat still, transfixed by the hologram. “What do you mean, you're on a secret mission?” C-3PO turned back to Scott. “I'm afraid he says he is the property of Derek Kenobi, and that the message can only be played back for him. I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not quite sure what he's talking about. Do you know of a Derek Kenobi from these parts?”

Scott thought for a second. He didn't know of any Dereks nearby, but there was old Miguel Kenobi— he was a recluse who lived out by himself in barren wasteland. Everyone thought he was either crazy or a myth, because he'd been there since before Scott was born, and no one had ever laid eyes on him.

“No, I don't know any Dereks,” Scott told the droid. “But there is an old Miguel Kenobi who lives out beyond the dune sea. I wonder if she means him?”  He looked back at the hologram briefly, where the girl was still repeating, “Help me, Derek Kenobi. You're my only hope.” Scott looked at the little droid. “Come on, she's in trouble. You have to play back the whole message!”

The two droids conversed briefly again, before C-3PO said, “Artoo believes that the restraining bolt has short circuited his memory. He says, if you remove it, he believes he will be able to play back the whole message.”

“Well, I guess you are too small to run away on us,” Scott said, prying off the bolt put on by the Jawas. The hologram instantly disappeared.

“Wait, where'd she go?” Scott demanded. “What happened to the message?”

Artoo beeped at him.

“What message?!” C-3PO translated, hitting the droid on the head. “The message you've just been playing, you idiot!” he cried, at the same time as his mom’s voice echoed through the shop, calling “Scott! Dinner!”

Scott groaned. “I have to go,” he told the droids. “See if you can get the message back,” he told C-3PO, turning and running out of the room, and back to the house and the kitchen.

When he entered the kitchen, his parents were already at the table, eating. Scott rinsed his hands quickly before sitting down and helping himself to food.

“How're the droids coming?” Noah immediately asked.

“Well,” Scott started, almost laughing. His parents were going to _freak_ when they realized they’d bought Rebellion droids. “I think they might have been stolen from someone. The protocol droid said they escaped from a rebel ship, and the Artoo unit keeps going on about how he's on a mission for a Derek Kenobi.”

His parents both momentarily froze. “What?” Melissa asked.

“I know,” Scott said, looking at his mom. “They were part of the _Rebellion._ It really _is_ out there.”

“No, the— Kenobi part,” Noah said, his eyes ever so slightly nervous.

“Yeah, he says he's on a secret mission for him; he's carrying a message addressed to him,” Scott explained. “I thought maybe he meant old Miguel Kenobi, because I've never heard of a Derek Kenobi near here. But what would the Rebellion want with an old hermit?”

Noah shook his head. “Never mind. Tomorrow, first thing, you go and have those droids' memories wiped. We can’t risk them talking about the Rebellion out here. This may be the outer rim, but there are more and more stormtroopers in the cities every day.”

Scott glanced at his dad. “But what if this Derek comes looking for them?”

“He won't,” Melissa said seriously. “He doesn't exist anymore. He died right when your father did.”

“You knew him?” Scott demanded, dropping his fork. “And he knew my father?”

“Enough, Scott,” Melissa said, looking pained. She pushed her hair back, resting her forehead in her palm. “Eat your dinner and finish cleaning up those droids.”

“He was my _father,”_ Scott shot back. “I have a right to know! You can't hide everything from me.”

“Scott, if we’re hiding anything from you, it’s only because we have a very good reason to,” Melissa replied sternly. “We’re not talking about it. It’s dangerous.”

Scott sighed. He did know that if his parents were keeping things from him, it was only for his own good. _“This is a dangerous world we live in, sweetheart,”_ his mother had said to him when he was small. “ _We have to be careful what we say. You never know when Imperial sympathizers are around. And the Empire doesn’t like people who don’t like them.”_

“I’m sorry,” Scott mumbled, glancing down at his plate. “I know you’re just trying to keep us safe.” He looked at his parents, and both of them looked heartbroken.

“It’s not because I don’t want to tell you about him, Scott,” his mom said, taking his hand across the table and squeezing it. “There’s nothing I want more. But he fought in the war, and he didn’t like the Empire, and it’s dangerous for you to know about him.”

“Do you mind if I go?” Scott asked. “I want to finish those droids tonight.”  His mother shook her head, smiling at him sympathetically, dropping his hand. Scott rose, walking up the stairs and back outside to the workshop.

A cool breeze struck his face as soon as he walked outside again— the first cool breeze of the day. Generally, Tatooine was just hot and sandy, but at night, like this, it was almost beautiful. Scott walked over to the edge of their property, staring out over the sand dunes, which stretched for miles. The binary sunset cast shadows of brilliant colors over the dunes, making the sand look like millions of shades of oranges, pinks, and blues.

Scott looked at the two suns, one closer towards the horizon than the other, and wondered if he would ever get to see the suns set on a different planet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter 2! A slight warning for torture in this chapter-- it's brief and pretty non-graphic, and I don't think it's worse than anything that's been on the show, but still. Thank you to everyone who left comments on the last chapter; I love reading them!! I hope you enjoy!!

Lydia was sick of sitting in a cell.

They had taken her onto their space station— the one she had given the droid the plans for— and immediately dragged her down to the detention level, shutting her in a cell. She wasn't sure how long she had been here, but she was getting hungry— and really, _really_ bored.

She had just finished counting how many different shapes she could make from the intersecting lines on the ceiling— for the fourth time— when her cell door slid open.

She sat up abruptly. Behind the door was, as she expected, Darth Vader— as well as a few officers and two Stormtroopers.

“Princess,” Vader said in his creepy, mechanical tone, stepping into the cell.

“Vader,” Lydia replied, giving him an annoyed look. Her many hours in solitude had given her plenty of time to tamp down her fear under her annoyance for being held hostage illegally. She may be a rebel— something of which they had no definitive proof, by the way— but she still had basic sentient _rights._

“I'm not going to tell you anything,” Lydia told him. “You should let me go before the Senate finds out what you've done.”

“All in due time, Princess,” Vader replied. “We know you insist you won't tell us where your rebel base is... but, you see, the issue may be that you have not been properly... _motivated..._ yet.”

And with a swish of his cape, he moved aside to reveal a droid hovering behind him.

It was round, shiny, and as black as Vader's mask. Protruding from the sides were long, sharp needles, rods, and…was that a spinning _drill_ bit? What were they going to do, drill a hole in her?

Lydia swallowed, trying to conceal her fear. “You know,” she said coolly, trying to keep her tone even, “It'll be hard to get information out of me if I'm dead.”

“Oh, Princess,” Vader said, his even voice sounding slightly amused. “I'm sure you'll be surprised at what you'll be able to live through. Of course, you could just make all this much easier, and just tell us where your base is.”

Lydia held her head high. No matter what Vader and his goons would do to her, nothing would make her betray the Rebellion like that.

After a moment of her silence, Vader somewhat sighed, stepping closer. “The hard way, then,” he commented, while the black droid glided closer. Lydia scrunched up her eyes and pressed her lips together, refusing to cry, refusing to give them that satisfaction. She would not give up her friends and family like this. She was stronger than Vader and his evil ways.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt. Moments later, Lydia was sure her screams could be heard everywhere on the Death Star.

***

All Scott wanted to do at this point was go to bed, but he still had to finish cleaning those dumb droids.

He entered the dark workshop, determined to finish up the R2 unit and go to sleep, when he heard a crash from behind the workbench. Scott whipped around, only to be faced with C-3PO, who was hiding behind the bench.

“What are you _doing_?” Scott asked, approaching the droid.

“Oh, Master Scott, it wasn't my fault!” The droid cried. “I tried to stop him! But he kept going on about his mission!”

Scott scanned the room quickly— sure enough, there was absolutely no sign of Artoo. Scott groaned. His parents were going to _kill_ him.  

“Please don't send me to the scrap pile!” C-3PO was saying. Scott searched the room for his macrobinoculars, thinking that he'd never heard a more melodramatic droid.

“No, it's okay, just...” Scott trailed off, finally finding the macrobinoculars and snatching them up, before rushing outside. C-3PO trailed aimlessly behind him, still muttering about Artoo.

Scott raised the macrobinoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. “He couldn't have gotten that far...” Scott mused, adjusting the dials. He still came up with nothing. “There's no sign of him,” he reported back to Threepio.

“Could we go after him, sir?” The droid asked.

“Not now, it's too dangerous.” Scott sighed. “There are sand people. Natives. They're not very friendly, and we definitely don't wanna meet them after dark. We'll have to go find him in the morning.”

***

Scott woke up so early the next morning that only one sun was in the sky.

He hurried into the kitchen to grab something to eat before heading out to find R2-D2, but stopped dead at the sight of his mom, already awake and making breakfast.

“You're up early,” she commented, raising an eyebrow at him, but there was a little smirk on her face. Scott approached slowly, taking the breakfast she was offering him.

“Yeah,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “I wanted to get some stuff done before Dad got up.” His mom gave him a sympathetic look.

“Scott, about last night…” she started. Scott looked down at his plate, not wanting her to see the look of disappointment he knew was creeping onto his face. Because Scott knew it wasn’t _really_ their fault. He didn’t blame his parents for keeping him here. They were poor, and they had work to do, or they wouldn’t eat. And it wasn’t like he was unbelievably miserable here, or something— Scott just wanted to see something beyond sand dunes and scorching heat.

“I'm sorry we can't send you to the Academy this year. I know how much it means to you, and how miserable you are here, with all your friends gone.” Scott looked up, barely believing what he was hearing. His mom was looking at his with a sad smile on her face, her eyes still shining bright as ever.

“I just...” Scott started, glancing down again. “I’m not _miserable._ I love living with you guys. I love you, and part of me wants to stay, it's just... There's so much more _out_ there, past Tatooine. And I want to see it all, meet everyone, help all sorts of people...” He glanced at his mom. “I know that sounds crazy.”

She smiled at him, ruffling his hair. “No, it doesn't sound crazy. It sounds exactly like something your father would say.”

Scott's breath caught. She was voluntarily bringing up his father? Scott knew barely anything about him, other than the fact that he was one of the best star pilots in the galaxy, and that he had died during the Clone Wars. He had fought against the powers that now controlled the galaxy, and because of that, it was dangerous for Scott to know too much about him. Melissa would tell him stories of her son when he was little, but when it came to his life once he had left Tatooine—the less Scott knew, the better.

“You know we were slaves,” she said, looking right at Scott. “Me and your father. We were owned by a Toydarian parts salvager in Mos Espa most of his life on Tatooine. Your dad left before I was freed. But I remember him looking up at me with his big eyes, all the wonder and hope in the world, and saying exactly that to me, when he was nine. ‘Mom, I want to see the whole galaxy, and help everyone in it.’”

Scott stayed silent, hoping she would continue. She used to tell him these stories when he was younger, but it had been years since he'd heard them.

“Every time I look at you, Scott, I see him,” she said, smiling at him and cupping his cheek. “Someone who's strong, and brave, and adventurous, and cares more about others than himself.”

Scott smiled back at her. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, moving to hug her. He was taller than her now, but she still cradled his head in her hand like she did when he was younger.

“I'm so proud of you, Scott,” she told him. “And Noah is too. And I know, wherever he is, your father would be as well.” She pulled away from the hug and looked at her grandson again. “I'll talk to Noah about the Academy. Maybe there's a way we can get you in next semester, so you can be with Harley and your other friends.”

Scott almost laughed with joy, his smile practically splitting his face. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now, get going,” she chided, turning back to the counter, but not before raising an eyebrow at him and smiling. “Before your dad realizes that droid is gone.”

Scott's jaw almost hit the ground, but he could see the second sun coming up in the window, and knew Noah would be awake soon. So he turned and bounded out of the kitchen, making a beeline for the workshop.

***

Perched on the edge of his speeder, Scott raised the macrobinoculars to his eyes again, scanning the horizon for any sign of the lost droid. C-3PO was muttering something to himself from the back of the speeder, but Scott was ignoring him, focusing instead on the reading on his screen.

“There's a droid out there,” he told Threepio, pointing towards the nearby mountains. “Hopefully it's Artoo.” He hung the macrobinoculars around his neck before hopping in the speeder and taking off again, racing towards the outcrop.

Sure enough, Artoo was in the canyon, rocking back and forth over the rocky ground, trying to get somewhere.

Scott stopped right in front of the rocks, jumping out and sprinting over to Artoo.

“There you are!” he sighed, stopping in front of the droid. “What are you doing out here? Do you want my parents to kill me?” Artoo just beeped in response. Scott didn't understand much binary, but he figured it was probably something to do with his mission.

Just as C-3PO joined them, Scott heard a crash, followed by grunting. He glanced around, but he didn't see anything nearby.

“What was that?” C-3PO said, his voice full of worry. Again, Scott thought he had never met a droid so high strung.

“Sand people, probably,” Scott replied. “Come on, let's check it out.” He scrambled up a rocky incline next to him, to get a better view point. C-3PO followed behind him, voicing his worry very loudly.

Scott ignored the droid, propping his elbows on a rock and pulling his macrobinoculars to his face again. “Well, I don't see anything,” he reported, scanning the ground. “No, wait...” He zoomed in on a group of banthas— big, gentle, hairy beasts that sand people would ride around. “Tusken raiders,” he called back to Threepio. “There're three banthas right there. And two sand people— but where's the thir—”

Scott was abruptly cut off, because the missing Tusken Raider had appeared, mere feet from Scott. He shook his gaffi stick and howled, sending Scott backwards onto the ground, eyes wide in terror. The sand person tried to strike him with the blunt end of his stick, but Scott rolled to the side. He tried to dodge again, terrified, but suddenly his head was on fire and the sunlight was fading and everything was becoming dark...

When Scott came to, it was because a wolf was howling.

At least, it sounded like a wolf.

He had been moved— probably dragged by the Tusken Raiders, judging from the amount of sand on his tunic— and he was lying next to his speeder, not still up on the ledge. The sand people were running away, grunting, and remounting their banthas. Scott glanced around, still groggy, trying to determine what had spooked them, when he saw a hooded figure in a long cloak approaching. The figure drew closer, tugging his hood off and revealing his face.

He was probably around fifty, with graying hair and a scruffy beard. His face was weathered and tired looking, and his eyes, while bright, had certain sadness to them, like they had seen tremendous amounts of pain. He was wearing strange robes, a mix of browns and tans, with a leather belt over his tunic. A strange metal cylinder hung from it.

Scott immediately knew who this man was.

“Miguel Kenobi?” he asked in wonder, looking up at the old man. He had heard stories of him, or course, but he didn't think anyone had ever seen him in person.

“Yes,” the man said, surveying Scott. “What are you doing way out here, kid? You got a death wish?”

“No,” Scott replied indignantly. “I was looking for my droid.” He gestured to R2-D2 behind him. “Who, actually, was looking for someone too— he's carrying a message for a Derek Kenobi. Is he a relative of yours? Because I've never heard of him.”

“Derek Kenobi...” Miguel said, a look of slight shock in his eyes. “That's a name I haven't heard in awhile.”

“My parents know him, I think,” Scott told him. “But they said he was dead. Artoo seems to think he's out here, though.”

“He's not dead,” Miguel said, staring out over the horizon. “Not yet, anyway,” he muttered, almost chuckling to himself.

“So you do know him?” Scott said, standing up slowly. His head still felt woozy.

“Of course I know him,” Miguel responded. “He’s me.” Scott's jaw dropped. “I haven't gone by Derek since... well, since you were born.”

Derek glanced over his shoulder. “I spooked the Sand People before, but they'll be back. We should get moving, Scott.”

“Wait— you know my name?” Scott said, aghast. He could have sworn Derek rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I know your name. Now can we go, before you get beaten up again? Get your droids and get in your speeder.”

Scott was too shocked at the old man's grumpy attitude to protest, knowing that eventually, the Tusken Raiders _would_ come back, and with more people than before.

“Where are we going?” Scott asked, beckoning Artoo and Threepio forward. Derek turned back to Scott.

“You said the droid has a message for me, right? We can go back to my place, it's closer.” He glanced around again. “Now let's _go.”_

Sure enough, Scott could hear the shuffling sound of banthas approaching through the canyon, so they lifted Artoo and Threepio into the speeder before climbing in themselves, and took off.

Derek's house was much smaller than Scott's, but it was also built underground, though there was no large open-aired atrium like he had. Derek's house was barely two rooms, the larger of the two being a combination of a kitchen and living room. Like Scott's house, the walls were rough, off-white stone, and the furniture was worn, weathered wood, beaten from years of sand blowing through. Scott placed C-3PO, who had been dinged up in the Tusken Raider attack, on the bench next to the table, and began fiddling with the droid’s arm, which was bent out of place.

Scott glanced over at Derek, who was looking at him contemplatively. “What?” Scott asked.

“Nothing,” Derek replied, shaking his head and looking away. “You just remind me of your father.”

“So you _did_ know my father!” Scott breathed, forgetting about Threepio.

“Yes,” Derek said, going over and fiddling with a trunk in the corner. “We fought together in the Clone Wars.”

“My parents won’t tell me anything about him,” Scott confided. “I wish I'd known him.”

Derek looked up at him, and his eyes were so full of sadness Scott almost wished he hadn't said anything.

“Knowledge is dangerous, Scott, and your dad was pretty high on the Empire’s list of ‘sentients to never mention again.’ What _do_ you know about him?”

Scott shrugged. “Not much. I know he fought in the war, and was a great pilot. And that he died in battle.”

Derek almost smiled. “He was an excellent pilot. He could fly anything.” He looked over at Scott again, and this time he definitely was grinning. 

Scott smiled too. “So you knew him well?”

“Mmm,” Derek said, nodding. “We were both Jedi. We went on a lot of missions together. He was a good friend.”

“Jedi?” Scott asked, looking at Derek curiously. He was sure he'd never heard his mom mention what that meant, let alone that his father was one.

“You never heard of the Jedi?” Derek demanded, looking mildly amused. “Your parents never told you what a Jedi was?”

“No,” Scott said, looking cautiously at Derek. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn his eyes flashed a bright blue— brighter than they normally were.

Derek sighed. “Wow. I'm impressed,” he responded. “They actually _listened_ to me.”

“What _is_ it?” Scott demanded, growing more and more confused.

Derek looked at him. “Jedi Wolves are the descendants of a very, very ancient sentient race called werewolves. Werewolves were shape-shifters— they could literally transform from wolves to beings at will.”

 _“Werewolves?”_ Scott asked, trying not to laugh. He'd heard of changelings before, who could alter their appearance and look like other sentients, but creatures that could change from sentient to animal? That seemed a little crazy.

“Yes, werewolves,” Derek said, sounding tired. He turned and faced Scott, and bared his teeth, growling lowly. Scott jumped. He had _fangs._ Those most definitely had not been there before.

“Believe me now?” Derek asked, smirking, his teeth returning to normal.

“Uh, yeah,” Scott replied, still a little shocked. “So you're a werewolf? And my father was one too?” Scott asked.

“Well, I'm not a werewolf,” Derek said. “Neither are you. We're just descended from werewolves. We've inherited their powers, but we can't become animals. That's why we're called Jedi Wolves.” Derek sighed. “Back before you were born, there were thousands of us. We used to keep the peace in the galaxy— since the beginning of the Republic, Jedi kept balance. Before the Empire. We all died out in the Clone Wars.”

Scott nodded, while wondering how many more questions Derek would answer. There was a person here who had _known_ his father during his adult life— knew what he had done and what he was like— every detail Scott knew of his dad was from his life on Tatooine, not his life beyond this planet. And Derek stood in front of him, his father’s old friend, with a wealth of knowledge Scott was desperate for him to share.

Derek was rooting through his trunk again, evidently looking for something. Before he could stop himself, Scott was asking Derek: “Is that how my dad died?”

Derek froze for a moment, but he regained his composure and answered. “Sort of,” he answered. “There was a young Jedi— Darth Vader. A friend of mine, actually, but... Vader turned to evil, and helped the Empire hunt down and destroy the Jedi. Now we're almost extinct, because of them.” He paused. "That's when your father died." 

Scott looked down at his lap, letting this news wash over him.

“I have something for you, actually,” Derek said, looking up from his trunk. There was something in his hands— an elegant metal cylinder like the one hanging from his belt. “It was your father's,” he said, walking over and sitting next to Scott. “He wanted you to have it, but your parents couldn’t tell you about Jedi before. If you’d known, then they would be able to sense—”

Scott was only half listening, his sights fixed on the thing in Derek’s hand. “What is it?” Scott asked, taking the object Derek was offering him. It was heavy in his hand and cool, like it hadn't been touched in years.

“It was your father's lightsaber,” Derek said. “The weapon of a Jedi Wolf. Way more precise than a blaster— but they take great skill to yield. Only Jedi have the senses and reflexes you need to use one effectively.”

Scott held the lightsaber in his hand, and pushed a button on the handle— suddenly, a long, bright, blue beam of light shot from the hilt. It buzzed with energy and power, and Scott could tell immediately that if he wanted, he could slice the table in front of him in half as easy as if it were butter.

“You said Vader was a friend of yours, right?” Scott asked, his voice quiet. “What happened?”

Derek gave Scott a look, clearly showing his annoyance. “You don't know when to stop asking questions, do you?” But he answered anyway, his face getting softer, his eyes filling with pain. “Vader was seduced by the dark side of the Force— by power, and greed, and selfishness. Jedi are supposed to be selfless, and only care for others.”

“The Force?” Scott asked, confused. He expected Derek to chide him for asking more questions, but Derek simply explained, “The Force is what gives a Jedi their power. It's an energy field, made up of all living things. It's around us, it's inside us— it's what binds the galaxy together. Werewolves used the Force to shift from wolf to being, so Jedi can use the Force to acquire those wolf-like powers when they need them.”

“You said I'm a Jedi?” Scott asked, looking up at Derek. Derek nodded.

“Well, you're Force-sensitive. I figured you would be, since your father was pretty powerful. The wolf genes definitely carried down into you. But you're not a Jedi— not yet. You have to go through training to become a Jedi, and learn how to use the Force like the werewolves used to.”

“How can you tell?” Scott questioned. “That I'm Force-sensitive,” he clarified.

“Well, I can feel it, in the Force,” Derek said. “You give off a stronger presence than most beings. That’s why your parents never told you about Jedi—if you’d known, it would make your presence even stronger, and the Empire would be able to find you.” Derek paused. “And your eyes,” he said. He looked into Scott's eyes, and this time, Scott was positive— Derek's eyes turned bright blue.

“Woah,” Scott said. “Your eyes just—”

Derek smirked, nodding towards the mirror on the wall, resting next to Scott. “Look at yours.”

Scott glanced in the mirror, and jumped back in surprise. Instead of his normally brown eyes staring back, two glowing yellow orbs had replaced them.

 _“What the—?”_ Scott asked, studying his eyes. The irises were brighter, a shining, warm yellow, and they were almost _glowing_ — there was no other way to describe it. They had golden flecks throughout them, and gold rings circling his irises.

“Those are your werewolf eyes,” Derek said. “When you're in tune with the Force, they show up. I just forced you to show them, because you still can't control yourself. But see mine?” Derek's eyes flashed again, and Scott looked closer. They were a bright, vibrant blue, with silver-white rims where Scott's gold ones were. “They're blue because I'm fully trained,” Derek explained, answering the question Scott had been about to ask. “I can use the Force and control my shift at will. Young, untrained Jedi who are still learning to use the Force have yellow eyes. Fully trained Jedi Wolves who have passed the trials have blue eyes. And very, _very_ powerful Jedi Masters have red eyes. The silver ring means I'm one with the light side of the Force. Sith Wolves— evil Jedi— have black rings around their eyes.”

“Why are mine gold?” Scott asked, looking in the mirror again, hoping to closer inspect this newfound trait, but his eyes had faded back to brown.

“I don't know,” Derek said quietly. 

Artoo beeped from the corner, reminding them of his presence. “So you're carrying a message for me, huh?” Derek asked the droid.

“I saw part of a message, but—” Scott was cut off, because Artoo had projected the hologram again onto the table in front of them. The girl was back.

“General Kenobi,” the girl said. “Years ago, you served my mother in the Clone Wars. Now we beg you to help in our struggle against the Empire. I'm very sorry I'm not able to present my request in person, but my ship has fallen under attack, and my mission to bring you back to Alderaan has been compromised. I've placed information vital to the survival of the Rebellion in the memory systems of this R2 unit. My mother will know how to retrieve it. You must see this droid safely to her on Alderaan. This is our most desperate hour.”

She paused, before repeating the phrase Scott had already heard: “Help me, Derek Kenobi. You're my only hope.”

The hologram ended, and Artoo's projector stopped.

Scott glanced up at Derek, who was staring at the spot the girl had just vanished from. Derek glanced up at Scott, meeting his eyes. Scott saw again how tired he looked.

“You have to learn the ways of the Force, Scott,” he said. “If you're going to come with me to Alderaan.”

Scott's heart soared. Go to Alderaan? Escape this planet for good? But as soon as the hope bubbling inside him rose, it sunk right back down. He couldn’t leave his parents here. The farm barely got on with him now; they’d never make it to the next harvest if he didn’t stay.

“I— I can't,” Scott said, glancing at the sandy floor. “I want to, but... I can't leave now. The harvest is coming up, and my parents can barely get by as it is. If I left now... They need me,” he said, glancing at Derek.

“I need you too,” Derek replied simply. “I'm getting too old to do this alone. You're probably the only other Jedi Wolf out there, even if you're untrained.”

Scott sighed. “I want to help, really... But I can't leave them. After everything they've done for me? I need to stay and help them. I can take you as far as Anchorhead, and then you can get a transport to Mos Eisley, or wherever you're going, but...”

Derek sighed, looking at the ground.

Scott glanced up at him again, seeing how tired he looked.

“You need to learn the ways of the Force, Scott,” he repeated. “You're the last of us. You and me, we're brothers now.”

“I want to help,” Scott said. “But I can't. I really need to get back, anyway. It's way later than I thought.”

“You have to do what you think is right,” Derek replied.

Scott felt like screaming. Never before had he wanted to do something so badly, only to know he couldn't.

“I'll drop you off at Anchorhead on my way back,” Scott offered.

Derek gave him a little smile. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you want to chat! Thanks again for reading; I hope you liked it! I'd love to hear what you thought!!


	3. Chapter 3

Before he even entered the room, Vader could hear the bickering from the hallway.

“While we are unarmed, this station is vulnerable,” he could hear someone saying. “The rebels are getting stronger. They pose too large of a threat.”

“A threat to your starfleet, yes,” another commander shot back. “Not to this station.”

“As long as the Imperial Senate generates sympathy for the Rebellion—”

“The Imperial Senate won't be an issue anymore,” Grand Moff Daehler said as he entered the room, Vader close behind him. “We've just received word. The Emperor has officially dissolved the Senate. The leftovers from the old Republic have finally been... swept away.”

Daehler moved to sit at the head of the table, and Vader stood behind him. The commanders seated around the long, dark table all turned to look at the Grand Moff.

“But how will the Emperor maintain control of the star systems?” someone asked, in a tone much too condescending for addressing their commanding officer.

“The regional governors have direct control over their territories. Fear will keep them in line.” Daehler glanced around the table at the other commanders. “Fear of this battle station.”

“But what about the Rebellion?” a commander insisted. “If the Rebels do have a full technical readout, they could, however unlikely, find a weakness, and exploit it.”

A murmur went up around the table, but Vader interrupted. “That is being handled. The plans will soon be back in our hands.”

Another man spoke up. “Any effort the Rebels make against this station would be useless, in the scope of things. This space station is the greatest power in the galaxy. And I think we should use it.”

“Don't be too cocky,” Vader advised. “Though I know how confident everyone is in the design of the station, its power is nothing in comparison to the Force.”

The commander rolled his eyes. “Don't try to lead us on with talk of that useless old religion,” he replied, scoffing. “You speak of the Force, but it hasn't helped us find those plans any faster— or discover the secret location of the Rebel base, for that mat—”

The commander had stopped speaking, because he appeared to be choking. Nothing was around his throat, but his hands clawed at it, as if an invisible hand were choking him. Vader's hand was stretched out, and from the anger radiating off of Vader, it became clear that Vader was choking him, despite not physically touching him.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Vader informed him, tightening his Force-hold on him.

Daehler rolled his eyes. “Enough, Vader. Let him go.”

Reluctantly, Vader released the man, who slumped down onto the table, almost unconscious.

“Soon we will have those plans back,” Vader informed the table. “And the Princess will tell me where her base is. It is only a matter of time until the galaxy sees the true power this station possesses.”

And with a swish of cape, Vader turned and left the room.

***

They weren't even halfway to Anchorhead when they saw the wreckage.

As first Scott didn't understand what it was, but then he realized it was a sandcrawler, with a slew of Jawas lying around it on the sand, evidently dead.

“What the...” Scott breathed, slowing down his speeder and pulling to a stop next to the wreckage. Derek got out behind him.

“It looks like the sand people attacked them,” Scott said, glancing around. “Look, there're bantha tracks, and a gaffi stick here, but... Why would they do this?” He looked up at Derek. “Why would Tusken Raiders want to slaughter Jawas?”

“I don't think it was Tusken Raiders,” Derek said contemplatively. “But we're supposed to think it was. There are bantha tracks, but they're side by side. Sand people always travel single file to hide their numbers.”

Scott was even more confused now. “Then who was it?”

“Look,” Derek said, gesturing to the dead Jawas. “They were killed with blasters. There are marks on the sandcrawler too,” he said, pointing to the side of the transport. “But they're too precise for sand people, even if they did somehow have blasters. Only Imperial Stormtroopers can shoot that accurately.”

“Imperial Stormtroopers?” Scott asked, his heart sinking. “I know they’ve been in the cities, but why would they be way out here?”

Derek gave him a look, but Scott already knew the answer. If Artoo really did have information that would greatly help the Rebellion, then the Empire would be doing anything they could to reclaim the droid.

“But... These are the same Jawas we bought Artoo and Threepio from,” Scott told Derek. His stomach was churning. “And if they found them here, that means they could've traced them back— _home.”_

“Scott, wait, it's too dangerous!” Derek called, but Scott was already in his speeder, racing back towards his house.

As soon as he saw the smoke on the horizon, he wanted to throw up.

He barely had stopped the speeder before he had jumped out of it, racing towards the smoking house. The whole place had been torched, and...

Scott almost threw up at the thought. It was barely midday, and his dad couldn’t have gone out to the vaporators without the droids. Smoke billowed up from the atrium, and Scott pictured his mom in the kitchen mere hours ago, shot down and burned—he could feel the weight in his stomach, the dreaded certainty—they were _gone_.  

Scott fell to his knees in front of the house, barely able to breathe. His throat was closing up. His poor parents— they'd known nothing of Artoo's message, had done nothing to provoke the Empire, had been completely innocent.

The anger and bitterness towards the Empire he'd always had had multiplied, and his mother’s words echoed in his head. _“This is a dangerous world we live in. The Empire doesn’t like people who don’t like them.”_ And in that instant, Scott knew he would help bring them down, if it was the last thing he did.

He looked at the house one more time, a dry sob escaping his throat. “I'm so sorry,” he managed to get out. Then he turned and got back in his speeder.

***

Derek and the droids were piling the Jawas' bodies and burning them when he got back.

“Scott?” Derek questioned, glancing up at him.

“I'm coming with you,” Scott said. “That droid has to get to Alderaan. If there's a way to stop these people, I'm going to make sure they get stopped.”

Derek gave him a half-smile again. “I'm glad to hear it. Now we better get to Mos Eisley as soon as we can, before the Stormtroopers find us.”

Scott couldn't have agreed more. He and Derek put the droids back in the speeder before climbing in themselves and setting off.

It was a long ride to Mos Eisley— almost two standard hours. Scott had never taken his speeder so far before— he'd never even _been_ this far before.

As they cruised in, Scott saw all sorts of sentients— Dugs, Twi'leks, Rodians, Aqualish— some of them he didn't even recognize. Jawas were haggling over spare parts. There were all sorts of droids milling about. A pack of womp rats scurried out of an alley. Dewbacks were tied outside of dusty looking stores with rusted ship parts piled under their windows. He had never seen so many things all in one place.

“Some of the best pilots in the galaxy come here,” Derek told him. “We should be able to find transport. But we have to be careful. You'll never find a place filled with more crooks and deadbeats than Mos Eisley, and if people figure out how important that droid is— we’d be in trouble. Turn that way.”

Scott guided his speeder down a smaller side street, and he could see why— a squad of Stormtroopers was on the main road. This place was crawling with Imperials, and they turned again, trying to avoid them, but— suddenly they were back in an open area, troops closing in from each side. There was no way out. Scott stopped.

A stormtrooper with an orange shoulder plate approached them. “You there,” he commanded, clearly addressing Scott and Derek, despite his face being hidden behind his white mask. “How long have you had these droids?”

“A couple seasons,” Scott lied smoothly, going with the cover story he and Derek had developed on the ride here, in case they were stopped. Scott hoped he didn't sound nervous, because he had never been more scared in his life than he was now, facing a Stormtrooper holding a very large blaster with a droid carrying Rebel intelligence in his backseat.

“They're for sale, if you want,” Derek added, smirking.

The stormtrooper was unfazed. “Let me see your identification.”

Scott's heart sank, because they had no identification. This was the one thing they hadn’t considered. Scott’s scandocs were back in his house— out in the desert, there was no one around to check and make sure you were who you said you were. And Derek— an ex Jedi, hiding for the past twenty years out in the Dune Sea? Who knew if he even _had_ identification?

Despite the dread seeping through Scott, Derek's smirk stayed in place. “You don't need to see our identifications,” he responded, his eyes flashing bright blue.

Scott was about to ask Derek if he had gone crazy, but before he could speak, the stormtrooper parroted back, “I don't need to see your identifications.”

“These aren't the droids you're looking for,” Derek insisted.

“These aren't the droids we're looking for,” the captain informed the other Stormtroopers with him.

“Move along,” Derek said, still smiling blandly.

“Move along!” The stormtrooper repeated, waving them forward. “Move along!”

Scott didn’t need to be told twice. He hit the gas, the speeder shooting forward and away from the troops, until Derek spoke again.

“Here,” he said, instructing Scott to pull over next to a cantina. Scott stopped the speeder and they climbed out, his heart still racing from their previous encounter.

“How did you _do_ that?” Scott asked. “They just let us go like nothing!”

Derek smirked again. “The Force can be used to influence the thoughts of the weak-minded. Jedi mind tricks,” he told Scott. He turned to the droids. “They won't let you in here,” he said, nodding to the cantina behind them. “Hide in here, and lock the door,” he said, gesturing to a line of doors that Scott supposed were storage units or something. “Don't move until we come back out.” After shutting the droids away, Derek led Scott into the cantina.

“You really think we'll find a pilot in here?” Scott asked over the noise, surveying the crowd. Almost every space at the bar was full. A group of Biths were on an elevated stage, playing catchy jazz music. There were all sorts of different people and creatures in here.

“I'm sure we will,” Derek said. “Stay here. Don't cause any trouble.”

“Sure,” Scott said, heading for the bar. Derek grabbed his shoulder and gave him a look.

“Really,” he said. “Don't.” And he walked away.

Scott headed over to the bar. Maybe a drink would help him erase the image of his mangled, smoking house that was burned on the back of his eyelids, and calm his racing heart from their near arrest.

He tapped the bartender on the shoulder and ordered a drink. It came a minute later, and Scott stood there, glancing around the bar as he quietly sipped his drink. It was amazing how different this was from his life at home. Mos Eisley had a reputation as being one of the seedier cities on Tatooine, and for good reason— it was a handy pit stop for smugglers and pilots with less-than-legal cargo, and looking around at the booths, sabacc tables, and bar stools, Scott wondered how many of these people had seen more than just the sandy dunes of this wasteland planet.

The creature standing next to him at the bar was giving him a strange look. The man was humanoid, but scaly everywhere, with slits for nostrils and eyes like a snake. He hissed something at Scott when Scott caught his eye, but Scott didn't understand him, so he looked away, searching the room for Derek—he’d caught sight of him a minute ago, but he’d disappeared into the hazy crowd at the back of the room. Still looking for the older man, Scott jumped when a  hand grabbed his shoulder, violently spinning him around.

There was a man standing next to the lizard man, glaring at Scott like he’d killed his dewback or something. “He doesn't like you,” the man informed Scott, nodding towards the lizard-creature.

Scott didn’t know what to say— he hadn’t done anything, had he? He was sitting here drinking his drink, completely minding his own business. Unless this man was somehow deeply insulted by strangers surveying their surroundings. Unsure how to respond, Scott ignored him and turned away again, only to be seized by the man and spun around again.

 _“I_ don't like you either,” the man told Scott.

“Sorry?” Scott said, baffled still.

“You better watch yourself,” the man said. The lizard creature next to him hissed. “We're dangerous. We're wanted on twelve different systems.”

“Okay?” Scott said, still confused. Before he could process what was going on, the man had pulled a blaster on him. Scott barely had a second to be afraid before a beam of blue light swung in front of him, and the man was howling in pain. His severed arm was lying on the floor, along with his gun.

Derek looked at Scott, raising an eyebrow at him as he put his lightsaber back on his belt. “I thought I told you not to cause any trouble.”

“I didn't— it wasn't me,” Scott said, but Derek was doing that half smile thing again.

“Come on,” Derek said, beckoning him forward. “I was just talking to the first mate of a ship here that I think will work.”

“Okay,” Scott said, obediently following Derek over to a booth tucked in the back corner of the cantina, his mind still stuck on how easily Derek had managed to slice off a human _arm._ Scott glanced at the lightsaber hanging from his belt— it suddenly felt much more powerful than just some metal cylinder.

“Scott,” Derek said, nudging him, and Scott’s head snapped up, regarding the booth in front of them. A man, maybe a few years older than Scott, was sitting there, his hair stuck up in the front, wearing an unbuttoned white shirt with a vest over it. His feet, clad in black boots, were propped on the bench next to him in a very couldn’t-care-less manner. He had a bored look on his face, but his eyes were scanning the room, and Scott could tell he was cataloguing every detail. A huge wookiee was sitting next to him.

“Right here,” Derek said, ushering Scott over. The man glanced up at the two as Derek slid onto the bench, Scott behind him.

“Stiles Solo,” the man said, his eyes darting between the two of them. “What can I do for you?”

“We need transport,” Derek said. He nodded his head towards the wookiee. “Your first mate Chewbacca here said you have a ship.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I do,” he replied. “I'm the captain of the Millennium Falcon.”

Derek looked at him blankly. “Okay. Is it a fast ship? We're sort of in a rush.”

Stiles looked at him like he had five heads. “Is it a _fast_ ship?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You've never heard of the _Millennium Falcon?”_

“Should we have?” Derek asked, his voice sharp. Stiles gave him a look that clearly read, _yes,_ he should have.

“She's the ship that made the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs,” Stiles said, like they were supposed to know what that was. It sounded like a hyperspace route to Scott, but he wasn’t sure. “And she can outrun the Imperial starships. And not the little ones, either, the big Corellian ones.” He paused. “She'll be fast enough for you.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“Good,” Derek said, unfazed by Stiles's attitude.

“Where are you going? What's the cargo?” Stiles inquired.

“We need transport to Alderaan,” Derek replied. “For me, the boy—” he nodded towards Scott, “and our two droids.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, leaning back in his seat.

“We need to avoid any... interaction with Imperials,” Derek said, staring at him.

Stiles grinned and raised his eyebrows. “And there it is.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Well, that’s gonna cost you extra. Ten thousand, all up front.”

Scott's jaw almost hit the table. Was this guy out of his mind? “Ten _thousand?”_ He turned to Derek. “We could probably buy a new ship for that.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Scott. “Yeah, but who's gonna fly it? You?”

“I could,” Scott said indignantly. Who did this guy think he was? “I'm a pretty good pilot.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows briefly, glancing to the side. His entire _mannerism_ screamed sarcasm.

“We'll pay you seventeen,” Derek said. “Two thousand now, and fifteen upon arrival.”

Stiles looked at Derek, before glancing up at the wookiee, Chewbacca. He shrugged. “Okay, deal. We're in docking bay 24. Meet us there as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Derek said, only sounding slightly annoyed. He and Scott got up from the table and exited the cantina. “You'll have to sell your speeder,” Derek informed Scott as they walked back over to said speeder.

“That's okay,” Scott said, patting the green hood and glancing at where Harley and he had painted the number 32, so they could pretend they were contestants in a pod race when they were younger. “I'm never coming back to this planet again. I won't need it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna apologize in advance for what had to be done to Mama McCall and Sheriff Stilinski. I'm sorry, guys. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading; I hope you liked it and I'd love to know what you think! 
> 
> Also, if you want to scream together about how we FINALLY have a premiere date, I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late, guys-- I'm on vacation and my internet connection is iffy at best. But here it is. Enjoy!

Stiles could smell trouble as soon as Donovan walked into the bar.

He acted unfazed as Donovan slid into the seat across from him, his eyes full of malice and his mouth twisted into a cruel grin. In reality, he was still internally whooping at that fact that some  _ idiots _ had just agreed to pay him seventeen  _ thousand _ credits to get them to Alderaan. Seriously, didn’t they know they could probably take public transport out of Mos Espa for a  _ tenth _ of that price? 

“Captain Solo,” Donovan said in greeting, leaning back in his seat.

“Donovan,” Stiles replied, keeping his tone even. “I was just on my way to see your boss.” Which, in all honesty, was only  _ partially _ a lie. Stiles wasn’t exactly planning on facing Jackson the Hutt until  _ after _ he had the money he owed the crime lord, but— desperate times, desperate measures. 

“Funny,” Donovan replied, but his expression didn't suggest anything humorous at all. “Because he just sent me to remind you exactly how much you owe him.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, I'm aware. You can tell him I've got his money, and he'll have it soon.”

Donovan shook his head, still grinning. “No, Stiles, you see... It's more than the money now. We both know Jackson has no use for smugglers who can't pay him back— especially ones who drop their cargo so quickly.”

Kriffing  _ hell,  _ this again? Okay, so  _ maybe _ Stiles had thrown a…  _ fairly sizeable  _ shipment of drugs into the cold vacuum of space because it looked like Imperial officers were going to board his ship, but— it had been  _ weeks _ ago, and it was the first time he’d had to drop a haul like that, and really, that Imperial officer had no business being in that sector of space  _ anyways— _

“That wasn't my fault,” Stiles said, pointing a finger at Donovan. He noticed that both of Donovan's hands were under the table— and one looked like it was on his hip, where his blaster was. Stiles smoothly placed the hand he'd been pointing with on his thigh, reaching slowly for his own blaster, and making sure not to alert Donovan that he'd caught on. “If I hadn't dropped that spice I would have been arrested, and Jackson would have been in trouble with the Empire—”

“Doesn't matter, Stiles,” Donovan said, shrugging. “You owe Jackson for the lost cargo, and since you can't pay him back— well, he's got no use for people like that.” He laughed. “He's put a price on your head big enough that every bounty hunter in the galaxy'll be looking for you. Lucky for me, I found you first.”

Stiles gave him a look. Donovan could try the whole menacing intimidation thing, but Stiles wasn't buying it. This kid was an amateur— there was no way Jackson's most skilled accomplices would have found Stiles after this idiot. When Jackson sent someone serious— someone like Kate Argent— instead of Donovan, that's when he'd take him seriously.

“I think Jackson would rather get his money a little late than lose his best smuggler, okay?” Stiles responded, his expression still skeptical. He knew Donovan was bluffing, and that Jackson was just trying to intimidate him. It wasn’t even like he was hiding from the crime lord. He was literally  _ on Jackson’s home planet, _ in the bar he always hung out in. Seriously. 

“Well, you can take that up with him, then,” Donovan said. “Who knows— maybe he'll be in a good mood, and only take your ship.”

_ That _ got on Stiles's nerves. If there was one thing he didn't want anyone coming near, it was his prized ship.

“Yeah, over my dead body,” Stiles snarled, sitting up higher.

“Well, that's the idea,” Donovan said, a cruel smirk on his face. “I've been waiting a while to do this.”

Stiles glared at him, narrowing his eyes. “Yeah, I bet you have.”

He saw Donovan's hand raise up his gun, but Stiles was quicker— before Donovan could even get off a shot, there was a scorching hole in his chest. His body doubled over, his forehead hitting the table. Stiles glanced around, slipping his blaster back into his holster. Not everyone, but a fair amount of people were looking at him. He got out of the booth and made for the door, tossing an extra coin to the bartender. “Sorry for the mess,” he said, before scanning the room for Chewbacca, who was further down the bar. “C'mon, Chewie, let's go.” Chewie let out a quiet roar of frustration, but followed Stiles outside regardless.

_ You shouldn’t have done that, _ Chewie growled to Stiles in Shyriiwook as they exited the cantina, and Stiles rolled his eyes at his friend. “He was going to shoot me!” he said indignantly. Chewie raised a furry brow. Stiles sighed, pulling a face. “Yeah, I know. Jackson’ll probably be pissed,” he admitted. “Come on, let's just get back to the ship. Seventeen  _ thousand— _ kest, those guys must be really desperate— this could save us, Chewie, after that fiasco with the dropped spice— as much as I hate Donovan, he probably wasn’t lying about how much Jackson wants his money back—”

Chewie roared in agreement, and Stiles laughed with him as they entered the docking bay.

He supposed he really should have expected Jackson to be there, especially after he shot Donovan.

Jackson the Hutt was waiting right in front of the loading ramp of the Falcon, his long, slug-like body stretched the entire length of the ramp, and his lizard-like eyes were trained right on Stiles. Stiles's laughter died in his throat.

“Jackson,” Stiles said curtly, walking closer. “I was just coming to see you.”

“So you  _ were _ going to come see me? About time.” Jackson replied in Huttese. While Stiles could understand Huttese, he had a rough time speaking it, so he replied in Basic. He knew Jackson could understand him, even if he would continue to only speak his native language.

“What, did you think I was gonna run?” Stiles asked. Which, you know, he had definitely considered. 

“I know you know better than that,” Jackson replied. “But I do have to ask— why haven't you paid me back yet? And why did you shoot Donovan?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Look, next time you need me, come see me yourself, don't send one of these idiots.” Jackson glanced at his posse behind him, much smaller than the one at his palace.

“Stiles,” he said. “I don't have much use for a smuggler who doesn't pay me back. Especially one who drops a lot of valuable spice at the threat of Imperial troops.”

Stiles audibly groaned. “For the last time, that wasn't my fault! Even  _ I _ get boarded sometimes, okay? Would you have rather had me get arrested? Because you know they would've figured out who I work for.” Jackson began to speak again, but Stiles cut him off. “I've got it all planned out, alright? I just took up a new job— nice and easy, and well-paid too. I'll get your money back, plus a little extra... I just need some more time.”

Stiles had known what Jackson's answer would be as soon as he said “extra.” Stiles could talk his way out of almost anything— knowing where and how to push people was one of his skills.

“Okay,” Jackson agreed. “A little more time is fine. But Stiles—” he turned and pointed at him, and Stiles stopped dead in his tracks, halfway up the ramp. “You miss paying me again, and I'll put a price so big on your head you won't be able to come near a civilized star system for the rest of your life. Okay?”

Stiles grinned. “Jackson, you're a wonderful human being,” he agreed, before striding up the ramp and disappearing from sight.

***

At first, Scott thought they had the wrong docking bay.

Then he saw Stiles, and, realizing they were in the right place, almost swore.

_ “This _ is your ship?” Scott said, incredulous, looking at Stiles, who was fiddling with the loading ramp. “Uh, no offense, but it looks like it’s falling apart.” 

The ship  _ was _ in rough condition. It looked battered and beaten, like it had definitely seen better days. It was a circular disc-shaped ship, and parts of it looked like they had just been stuck on and didn't really belong. For something as fast as Stiles had boasted, Scott had expected it to be sleek and thin and elegant. This ship looked like it would fall apart if it tried to travel at light speed.

Stiles spun around to face them, dropping his tool. Chewbacca howled something, but since Scott didn't speak Shyriiwook, he didn't understand it. Judging by the look on Stiles's face, he and the wookiee agreed.

“Says the guy wearing a  _ poncho,” _ Stiles retorted, looking at Scott’s outfit. 

“We’re on Tatooine,” Scott replied, glancing at his outfit. “Everyone wears ponchos.” 

“Not him,” Stiles said, waving his hand at Derek. “He’s wearing weird monk-robes.” 

“Okay, this doesn’t change the fact that your ship is a piece of junk,” Scott replied. 

“Don't call my ship junk,” Stiles demanded, his eyes narrowing at Scott and Derek. “Out here she doesn't look like much, but she's got it where it counts. She'll make point-five past lightspeed. I've made a lot of special modifications, too.”

Scott still looked skeptical. “You can find another ship if you want,” Stiles retorted. “But good luck finding someone willing to transport people wanted by the Empire for less than 17.” Scott's skepticism turned into shock. They hadn't been that obvious, had they? He glanced at Derek, who appeared to be wondering the same thing.

“I'm not an idiot,” Stiles informed them. “I've seen the stormtroopers asking all over about droids all day. I'm assuming those are the ones they're looking for?” He nodded his head towards Artoo and Threepio.

“Keep your voice down!” Derek hissed. “If you're so smart, you should know there are spies everywhere.”

Stiles looked almost offended.  _ “Alright! _ Stars. Calm down. Don't be such a sourwolf.”

Derek opened his mouth to retort something back, but Stiles beat him to it. “Now, like you said, time is a sensitive matter, so if you could just get on board, we'll be off.”

Derek took a deep breath, calming himself, before following Scott over to the loading ramp, the two droids behind them. The moment Scott placed a foot on the ramp, though, he heard a cry of “there they are!” as something hot whizzed past his ear.

Spinning around, he realized it was a blaster bolt, and that the hangar had been flooded with Imperial Stormtroopers. Derek and Stiles had also turned towards the intruders, Derek with his lightsaber out, and Stiles with a blaster in his hand. Even Chewbacca had a crossbow. Scott was the only one unarmed.

“I  _ told _ you!” Derek roared, deflecting a blast with his lightsaber.

“Shut up and get inside!” Stiles snapped back. “Chewie, get us in the air!” The wookiee growled in agreement and ran into the ship.

“Scott!” Derek called. “Get the droids inside! We'll follow you!” Scott ushered Artoo and Threepio (who sounded close to a breakdown again) up the ramp and into the ship. He stopped dead, because the hallway twisted two ways, and Scott had no idea which way to go.

“Come on, let's  _ move!” _ Stiles cried, sprinting past Scott and down the hallway to the right. The loading ramp was rising behind him with Derek standing halfway up it, still deflecting blasts.

“Come on,” Derek said after the ramp was up and his lightsaber was back in its holster. He walked down the same passage Stiles had just sprinted down, Scott and the droids following behind.

The inside of the ship was just as run down as the outside. The walls were battered and scratched, the metal tiles of the floor worn. The ship gave a lurch into the air as they turned the corner into the cockpit, and Chewie roared again. “I  _ know!” _ Stiles snapped at his first mate. “I'm trying... Okay, we're clear!” They had risen out of the docking bay, and with a jolt that sent Scott into one of the high-backed seats positioned behind the pilot's console, they took off. Derek took the other seat, while C-3PO tried to brace himself on a wall.

They shot across Tatooine like a bullet, the small, sandy villages below getting smaller and smaller as they flew towards space.

“Hang on,” Stiles advised, and then they were above the planet, miles and miles and  _ miles _ of velvety black dotted with thousands of stars stretching before them. Scott had never seen anything so beautiful.

Then an Imperial fighter darted in front of them, and the vision was shattered.

“Chewie, put up the front deflector shields,” Stiles instructed, dodging fire from the TIE fighter.

Chewie growled something at Stiles, who swore in what Scott was pretty sure was Corellian. “There are more on our tail,” Stiles informed them. “But we'll outrun them, don't worry—  _ kriff!” _

An enormous Imperial Star Destroyer was looming in front of them. Scott didn't think he'd ever seen anything so large. It looked like it was twice the size of Tatooine.

“What the  _ hell _ is on that droid?” Stiles yelped. “Chewie, you fly, I have to make the calculations for the jump to hyperspace!”

“Wait, calculations? We don't have time for that!” Scott exclaimed. “Can't we just go?”

“Not unless you wanna end up in the middle of a black hole somewhere!” Stiles retorted. “Almost— here!” He sprang back into his seat, flicking switches as he went. The star destroyer was only getting closer.

“Hold on!” Stiles cried, pushing a lever up. Suddenly, the tiny dots that were stars elongated into lines, and Scott felt a huge pressure push him all the way back into his seat. The star destroyer was gone, and the Falcon sped across the galaxy, faster than the speed of light.

Stiles leaned back in the captain's seat, propping his hands behind his head. “Alright. Now we should be good.” He glanced between Scott and Derek suspiciously. “I don't even want to know what you two are up to.”

Derek ignored this. “How long until we get to Alderaan?”

Stiles shrugged. “Couple standard hours. You can make yourself comfortable in the main hold, there are seats in there. Chewie, show them, okay?”

Chewbacca roared a response and stood up, leading them down a corridor and into a wide room filled with junk. In the corner, there was a cushioned bench attached to the wall, circling a hologram board. Chewie sat down next to the board and conjured up a holographic game of Dejarik. Artoo whistled at the game and glided over to join.

“So,” Derek said, turning to Scott. “Ready to learn about the Force?”

Scott's jaw dropped. “What, right now?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “No, tomorrow, after we've already finished our mission on Alderaan.  _ Yes,  _ right now.”

“Okay,” Scott said tentatively. “What do I do?”

“Well,” Derek started. “The Force is already inside you. It's inside everyone, but some people, like you and me, have a much easier time tapping into it. That's because of your werewolf genes. The Force was very strong with them, so it's strong with you too.

“What I'm going to do is teach you how to tap into the Force within and around you. It'll make you stronger, make you more aware of your surroundings, heighten your senses, and allow you to do things normal people can't do.”

“So how do I do that?” Scott asked. “Tap into the Force like that?”

“You have to learn to control your emotions, but you also need to use your feelings. Jedi are meant to care about everyone but themselves— they have to be completely selfless. Your emotions are very important, but only ones that benefit other people. Anger, jealousy, hatred, greed— those are all connected to the dark side of the Force. Sith Wolves, which are basically the dark equivalent of Jedi, use their anger and greed to hone in on the Force and shift to their wolf-side. Their anger makes them stronger. You need to use the opposite— compassion. Use those emotions to feel the Force around you.”

“That sounds really complicated,” Scott said, getting very nervous suddenly.

Derek chuckled. “Well, we'll start small. It takes time to become a fully trained Jedi— years, at least. Why don't you take out your lightsaber, and we'll start with that?”

That at least sounded manageable. Scott unclipped it from where he had hung it on his belt. Derek was rummaging around the large compartment, looking for something.

“Here, this is perfect,” Derek said, picking up a small security drone and switching it on. It rose in the air for a moment, before focusing on Scott.

“Turn on your lightsaber and deflect the shots,” Derek told him. Scott powered up his saber again, holding the blue beam of light in front of him. The drone paused, like it was considering his weaknesses, before firing a blast at him.

Scott quickly moved his lightsaber to the side, catching the shot and absorbing it.

“Good,” Derek said, but the drone had zipped over to the other side and quickly set off another shot, and Scott didn't have time to catch it with his blade. It caught him in the leg instead, and he yelped in pain.

“Try to predict where it'll go next,” Derek advised. “Feel out the room. Try to tap into the Force.”

“Easier said than done,” Scott mumbled, watching the drone zip through the air again. He blocked its next shot, but then missed the one that followed, getting hit in the shoulder.

_ “Ow!”  _ he cried, looking at Derek. “This isn't  _ working!”  _ He could feel his anger and frustration growing, even though he was trying to heed Derek's words— he  _ had _ to get better at this, he  _ had _ to become a Jedi— he had to stop the Empire from all the horrible, evil things they were doing— he could feel his anger at them rising and bubbling over, and he was so mad he  _ growled, _ taking a swipe at the drone with his lightsaber. It darted to the side, unfazed, but Derek stood up, looking at him cautiously.

“Scott,” he said, approaching him slowly. “Calm down. It's alright.”

“No, it's  _ not!”  _ Scott retorted. “I thought you said this was supposed to be  _ easy  _ for me! I can't do it, but I need to, I need to stop the Empire before they hurt anyone else—”

“Woah,” Derek interrupted. “Slow down. I never said this was easy. Learning how to use the Force— it's going to be the hardest thing you'll ever do. But once you do figure it out, everything will be much easier, I promise. Learning to shift the first time is the worst. It only gets easier from there.”

Scott took a deep breath.

“You're relying too much on your sight right now. You're trying to see where the drone will be next. Try to  _ feel _ it.”

“I was trying that,” Scott grumbled. “But I'm still not— I still can't—”

“You're not using the right emotions,” Derek told him. “You're focusing on your anger and frustration. You need to let those go. Forget about your anger.”

“How am I supposed to do  _ that?” _ Scott demanded. “I can't just forget— they  _ raised _ me! They did  _ nothing _ — they were completely  _ innocent _ and they  _ died _ and it's my fault— I couldn't protect them— I can't protect  _ anyone—” _

“Scott,” Derek said, and Scott looked up, meeting Derek's eyes. “First off, it's not your fault. I know you don't believe me,” Derek said, because Scott had opened his mouth to interject, “but you need to hear it. It's not your fault. Second, you don't need to forget. Don't forget them. Use them. Use your positive emotions from them— think of all the other people in the galaxy that have been hurt by the Empire. Now, don't think about how mad the Empire makes you. Think about how much compassion you have for the people who have lost their families. Think about how much you want to help them, regardless of what happens to you. Think of  _ that,  _ and use that.”

Scott took a deep breath, focusing on Derek's words. And he felt it— a sharp buzzing flowing through him, almost like a shock of electricity. Everything was sharper, clearer— he could see smaller details that he generally couldn't see, he could hear Stiles muttering something to himself in the cockpit, and he had a feeling that if his lightsaber were on, he'd be able to move it much quicker than he could have before.

“I—  _ wow,” _ Scott breathed, looking at Derek. The older man was grinning softly.

“Am I doing it?” Scott asked.

“Look at your eyes,” Derek replied. Scott glanced in the reflective metal on the wall. Sure enough, his eyes were burning bright yellow and gold.

“Now, focus on that feeling,” Derek instructed. “And let's try again.”

Scott turned back to the drone, firing up his lightsaber again. He caught the next five rapid shots it fired at him, and he looked to Derek, grinning.

“Good,” Derek told him, grabbing a fighter helmet from the shelf next to them. “Now try with this on.”

Scott took the helmet from Derek, pulling it on his head. He tried to push the solid blast shield covering his eyes up, but it was stuck in its position.

“The shield's broken,” Scott told Derek. “Is there another one, or...?”

“No, do it with the shield down,” Derek told him.

“But I can't see,” Scott told him. “How am I supposed to block the shots?”

“You don't need to see,” he heard Derek say. “Use the Force. Feel where it is.”

Scott thought that sounded crazy, but so far Derek had been right, so he didn't protest.

He heard the drone fire a shot, and blindly waved his lightsaber, missing it completely. The blast hit him in the leg, and he winced at the pain.

“Remember that feeling, Scott,” he heard Derek say. “Remember that, and you won't need to see.”

Scott focused on that feeling again, until he felt his body buzzing again. He heard the faintest rush of air, heard the slightest hum as the drone moved side to side, and then, he couldn't explain how— but he  _ felt _ it, he could tell, it was just to his left, aiming at his elbow, and he brought his lightsaber up, blocking the shot, before quickly switching its position, blocking the next two the drone fired off. He turned off his lightsaber and tugged the helmet off his head, a huge smile across his face. Derek didn’t say a word, but a large, genuine smile was slowly stretching across his face. Scott thought it was the first time all day he'd seen him smile.

“What?” Scott asked, his grin fading a little, nervous at Derek's reaction. Derek looked like he was about to start laughing.

“You're going to be good at this,” Derek said, still grinning. Scott grinned too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like any questions on how I view Jackson as a person should be cleared up now. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think! Leave a comment below or come chat with me on tumblr or twitter; I'm stilesssolo on both! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the next chapter! Sorry for the break last week, I was away and I didn't have my laptop with me. Another brief torture warning-- although nothing happens, it's just mentioned. Thanks for reading; I hope you like it!

Lydia almost wished they would just kill her.

She was sick of this cell. She tried to keep her mind occupied, tried to focus on anything but the pain, but she'd already memorized every detail of the room— every line on the ceiling, every speck on each floor tile, every scuff on the metal bench she was laying on. The cold metal made her shiver through her thin white dress, and her toes were cold in her boots. Her neck and back were painful and sore from where they'd been sticking needles in her, and the left side of her head was throbbing dully.

It had been a few days (at least she thought it had been) since they'd drilled into her head, but her skull still ached. She'd taken out her hair, the pins that had held her neat hair buns up on the corner of the bench, and her dirty hair hung over her shoulders and down her back.

She knew her roots were laced with blood.

She sighed. This is what the Empire wanted— they wanted her to lose hope, to give up. She could only pray that Derek had somehow gotten her message and was rushing to Alderaan right now. Then at least all this pain would be worthwhile.

Lydia steeled herself and ran her fingers through her hair. The right side was absolutely fine, so she parted her hair and twisted that side back up into a bun. She turned to the left side, gingerly combing her fingers through the strands. When she pulled her fingers away, they had dried blood on the ends.

She slowly twisted her hair and wound it back up, holding it in place while she pinned it. She was trying to be careful, but she accidentally jabbed a pin in the hole in her head, and almost blacked out from the pain, stars dancing in front of her eyes. She blinked back tears and finished pinning up her hair, pretending she was preparing herself for an unpleasant senate meeting. Maybe if she put herself in Politician Mode, she could ignore the abuse they were putting her through.

As if she was going to talk. She'd die before she told these tyrants anything.

She finished pinning her hair and leaned back against the cold wall, still shivering.

Not even a minute later the door was sliding open and Stormtroopers were grabbing her again.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up in a corner and sleep and scream until her throat was raw. Until she found a way to get off of this sith-forsaken space station.

They'd just finished treating her like a pincushion mere standard hours ago, and now they were going to torture her more.

She was so  _ sick _ of being hurt.

The Stormtroopers led her down a hall, around a corner, and down another hall. This ship was a giant maze, and while she had the route to the room where they tortured her memorized, they were taking her somewhere else today. They led her through a set of doors and into a cavernous room with huge glass windows stretching from the ceiling to the floor. There were controls and switchboards everywhere, with people scurrying between boards, checking different screens and monitors. They were in the bridge.

Standing in front of the large windows was Darth Vader, a dark haired commander at his side. Vader and his commander turned at her entrance, and Lydia’s breath caught in surprise— the commander next to Vader was Grand Moff Daehler, the governor of the Outer Rim. Thinking of the few times she'd briefly met Daehler, though, she wasn't that surprised to see him working directly with Vader.

“Princess,” he said mockingly, surveying her. She knew she was beaten and battered, but she hoped she still had the commanding expression and steely gaze she often utilized in senate meetings.

“Governor Daehler,” she said back icily. “I guess I should have expected you to be the one holding Vader's leash. You always have been one to let your pets do all the dirty work for you, haven't you?”

“Oh, princess,” Daehler replied, grabbing her chin and twisting her head to the side to inspect the needle marks on her neck, “You have no idea how hard it was signing the deal to end your life.”

“I'm sure,” Lydia spat back. “I can see you're so torn up over it. Tell me, are you going to personally kill me, or are you letting one of your puppets get the blood on their hands for you, as per usual?”

Daehler looked like he was going to snarl at her, but Vader put up a hand. “Enough, princess. We know you know where the rebel base is. You've somehow managed to resist our mind probes, and torturing you has done nothing, which tells us one thing— you don’t care about your own well-being.”

Daehler gave her a sadistic smile. “This station you're in right now is the most powerful weapon this galaxy has ever seen. It has enough firepower to destroy an entire planet. So you can either tell us where your rebel base is, or...” He stepped aside, and Lydia finally saw clearly out the window. Her stomach flopped. “We can destroy your own planet.”

Alderaan was sitting peacefully right outside the window, very close by. She could see the misty clouds and the snowy mountaintops from here.

_ “What?!”  _ Lydia cried, looking frantically between the two men in front of her. “You can't, Alderaan is  _ peaceful,  _ we have no weapons, no shields, nothing! We've done nothing to provoke the Empire like this!”

“Then tell us where your base is!” Daehler snarled. “Tell us, and the blood of all the innocent people on your planet won't be on your hands.”

Lydia felt like she was going to cry. She couldn't tell them about the Rebel base on Yavin 4, obviously, but she couldn't let them destroy her planet either. She remembered, suddenly, the old rebel base on Dantooine— she'd been there years ago, when she was only fifteen or so, having just become involved with the Rebellion, much to her mother’s chagrin— but it had long been abandoned, and she was almost positive there were no rebels there anymore, just the old structures. They would realize it was an old base, but it would buy her time, and maybe then she could save both Alderaan and Yavin 4.

“Dantooine,” she heard herself telling Daehler. “The base is on Dantooine.”

“Thank you,” Daehler said, his smile wide and malicious. “See, Vader, I told you we could get her to talk.” He turned to a man at one of the control panels.

“Fire on Alderaan when you're ready,” he instructed.

_ “What?” _ Lydia yelped. “But you said that—”

“You're way too trusting, Princess,” Daehler said. “Dantooine is too remote to make a show out of. We need something prominent to make our demonstration.”

Lydia tried to fight her way over to Vader, to Daehler, to  _ anyone,  _ really, to make this stop, to spare her people, but three Stormtroopers grabbed her and held her in place, facing the window. She watched in horror as a green jet of light shot out of the station, right for her planet. For a second, nothing happened, and then— the whole planet was gone, a mix of fiery rubble drifting through space. A dry sob escaped Lydia's mouth— her friends, her family, her world— all gone, in the blink of an eye. She could hear every scream of terror in her head; feel every single person's destruction in her gut. From her mouth tore a scream, raw and primal and full of emotion, and Lydia hadn’t meant to do it; didn’t even think she had coherently considered screaming, but she could somehow feel, in that moment, where all her people perished below her, their agony and pain, and their screams pressed up against the inside of her skull, pulling at her vocal cords, clawing their way out, until she let out a noise of heartbreak and desperation and anger so raw, so loud, that the stormtroopers holding her dropped her instantly, stumbling back.

The commanders at work on the control panels covered their ears, and Daehler winced, clutching his head. The only one unaffected was Vader, who stood stoically above her, looking down with that blank mask. She wondered how a person could be so callous, so cruel, as to destroy an entire innocent world just to bring down a band of rebels, who—if she was being realistic—didn’t even have much of a chance against the Empire anyway. Would he still sleep soundly tonight, with the knowledge that he had just destroyed an entire culture, an entire  _ people,  _ with the mere push of a button? How could a person live with the guilt of slaughtering millions,  _ trillions _ of innocent souls for  _ demonstration—  _ to inflict terror over a galaxy that already lived in constant fear of the Empire’s iron fist— how could he justify that to himself?

And so she screamed, heartbroken, anguished, and raw, until her voice was hoarse and every ounce of will to live had drained from her. She knew that she was a leader, and a princess, and she had to be strong. Her mother had always taught her to raise her head and keep going when things were impossible, because that’s what leaders do. But not now. Not today. In that moment, Lydia allowed herself to be helpless and powerless and utterly  _ defeated,  _ staring at the charred remains of her planet drifting through space.

She couldn’t support her own weight anymore; she half slid to the ground. The stormtroopers seemed to recover as soon as she stopped screaming, and they grabbed her arms again, holding her back. Not that they needed to. She was done fighting. She had no strength left in her. As the Stormtroopers dragged her from the room, she heard Daehler say, “Send a unit to Dantooine immediately. And set her execution; we don't need her anymore.”

_ Good, _ she thought, as the Stormtroopers shoved her down the hall.  _ I can't live with this pain anymore. Just make it all end _ .

***

Scott hadn't missed a shot in nearly an hour.

He could feel the Force flowing through him, and it felt  _ amazing _ — he never wanted it to end. Derek was giving him tips and pointers as he continued to deflect shots, but he could hear the satisfaction in his voice. He was focusing so hard on hearing and feeling the drone in front of him, he almost missed the sound of Stiles's footsteps coming down the hallway.

“Hey, we're almost— what are you  _ doing?” _

Stiles stood frozen in the doorway, eyes darting between the lightsaber in Scott’s hand and Derek, sitting across from him. “Is that a lightsaber?” Stiles continued, not waiting for an answer. “Oh, stars, please don’t tell me that in addition to rebellion intel, I’m also harboring fugitive Jedi.” 

“How do you—” Scott started, but Stiles just kept talking. 

“I didn’t even think there were any of you  _ left.  _ Didn’t the Empire kill all of you?” he asked, looking at Derek. Derek, in a typical fashion, pulled a face, scowling at Stiles. 

“Evidently they didn’t kill all of us,” he retorted, voice low and annoyed. “You remember the massacre? How old were you?” 

“Five or six,” Stiles responded, shrugging. “Everyone remembers the massacre. Jedi wolves were like the poster children of the Republic, and then they just—  _ weren’t.”  _

“They  _ weren’t  _ when the Empire took control of the government and slaughtered us all,” Derek mumbled, looking away. Scott, on the other hand, was completely enthralled— he couldn’t believe Stiles knew about the Jedi too. He wanted to ask more questions, but before he could open his mouth, Chewie suddenly let out an outraged growl from the Dejarik table.

“There's no use complaining about it,” C-3PO informed the enraged wookiee. “Artoo made a fair move.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows at the pair. “I wouldn't upset him, if I were you,” he advised the droids.

“But sir,” Threepio said indignantly, “No one ever worries about upsetting a  _ droid.” _

Stiles gave them a crooked smirk. “Well, that's because a droid won't rip your arms out of their sockets if they lose. Wookiees are known to do that.”

C-3PO looked appalled. “Artoo, I would suggest a new strategy,” he advised. _ “Let the wookiee win.” _

Looking away from his first mate, Stiles opened his mouth to say something—but suddenly, Derek cried out and stumbled back, holding his chest.

“Are you okay?” Scott yelped, rushing over to the old man.

“No,” Derek replied. “I just felt— something  _ awful _ — like a million voices cried out in terror, and then went silent.” He looked at Scott, his eyes bright blue and full of anguish. “Something terrible's happened.”

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Stiles muttered, causing Derek to throw him another very aggravated glare. 

“We're gonna make the jump out of hyperspace in a few minutes,” Stiles informed them. “You might wanna come sit in the cockpit again.”

Scott and Derek put back the drone and the helmet, before following Chewbacca and the droids back to the cockpit and taking their seats again.

“Ready, Chewie?” Stiles asked his first mate, flipping switches as he spoke. Chewie growled in agreement. Stiles pulled a lever, and the lines of light streaking past the window shrunk back into stars.

Immediately, something hit the Falcon.

“Woah!” Stiles cried, veering the ship to the side. “Asteroids!”

Sure enough, they seemed to be in the middle of an asteroid field. Chunks of rock were flying from every direction at them.

“There's no asteroid field here,” Stiles said in disbelief.

“Well, evidently there is,” Derek replied. “And where's Alderaan? Shouldn't we be able to see it?”

“Yeah, we should,” Stiles said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “These are the right coordinates,” he confirmed, checking a screen. “It should be right in front of us.”

The rocks cleared— they seemed to be right on the edge of the asteroid field— and Stiles continued to look around in disbelief. “Where is it?” he cried. “It should be right here!”

Out of nowhere, a TIE fighter swooped in front of them.

“Where did he come from?” Stiles yelped, though Scott didn’t think he expected an answer. “TIE fighters can't travel this deep into space alone.”

Chewie growled something.

“You're right, buddy,” Stiles agreed. “They'll know our ship after Mos Eisley. We better get rid of him before he tells anyone about us.”

Stiles sped up, chasing after the fighter.

“Looks like he's heading for that moon up there,” Scott said, gesturing to the tiny moon up ahead. Chewie growled in agreement, before taking aim and firing. The TIE fighter exploded.

“That's not a moon,” Derek said quietly. Everyone in the cabin turned to look at him. “That's a space station.”

“No way,” Stiles scoffed. “It's way too big.”

But as they drew closer, Scott could see truth in what Derek had said. It definitely looked man-made, and he could see weapons on the outside. Dread was filling Scott's stomach.

“I've got a bad feeling about this,” Scott said quietly, his eyes trained on the station.

“Turn the ship around,” Derek said.

For once, Stiles didn't protest. “Yeah, I think you're right. Chewie, let's turn around.” 

Chewie fiddled with the controls before growling in frustration. Stiles let out a similar growl.

“Why aren't we turning?” he exclaimed. “Chewie, put everything we've got in the reverse thrusters! We don't wanna be anywhere near that thing!”

They were still drawing closer. Scott pointed this out to Stiles, who did not appreciate the comment.

Stiles swore in Corellian again. “We're stuck in their tractor beam,” he informed them. “Their  _ really strong _ tractor beam.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Scott asked desperately, but already the ship was being pulled into the landing bay on the space station.

“Hide, I guess,” Stiles said, jumping out of his chair and darting over to the computer on the adjacent wall. He glanced at all the Stormtroopers milling around the hangar, typing furiously on the computer. A figure in all black came storming into the hangar, more troops and generals in gray uniforms behind him. “Yeah, definitely hide. Come on.”

Stiles ushered them out of the cockpit and into one of the cargo holds. “There are secret compartments under here,” he said, yanking up floor tiles.

“They'll have scanners,” Derek said, glancing skeptically at the small room under the floor.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yes, I'm aware of that, thank you. The compartments are sensor-proof. They won't be able to tell we're down here. Now get  _ in,  _ please.”

Derek climbed into the compartment, grumbling. Scott lowered the droids down to him before getting in the compartment himself. Stiles closed the panel over both of them before he and Chewie got into the compartment next to Scott's.

Barely minutes later, they heard footsteps.

“There doesn't seem to be anyone here, my lord,” a voice said. “According to the crew's entry log, the ship was abandoned shortly after takeoff. There are a few escape pods missing. This must be a decoy.”

“Impossible,” another voice replied. It was cold and mechanical, and Scott could hear his heavy breaths. Derek froze next to Scott. “This is the same ship that escaped from Tatooine. They must be trying to return the droid to the Princess. She may still be of use after all.”

“Of course, Lord Vader,” the other voice replied. Now Scott froze.  _ Vader.  _ He remembered that name.

“What is that...?” Vader started, trailing off.

“I'm sorry, my lord?” the other voice said nervously.

“I feel something,” Vader replied. “A presence I have not felt since...”

The other voice remained silent, and Vader seemed to regain his composure.

“Bring a scanning team on board. I want every inch of this ship searched,” he demanded.

“Right away, my lord,” the other man replied, and they heard both sets of footsteps retreat. The ship was silent.

Next to them, they heard the top of the other compartment shift. Derek lifted their floor tile out of the way, and they poked their heads out, facing Chewie and Stiles.

“So now what?” Stiles asked sarcastically. “These compartments are sensor proof, but they'll find us eventually. And we can't leave with that tractor beam.”

“If we get to a control room, we might be able to take out the beam,” Derek suggested.

“Okay,” Stiles said. “And how, exactly, are we supposed to get out of here and to a control room without being noticed?”

Scott heard the sound of approaching Stormtroopers, and a wild idea came to him. “I have a plan,” he told them, glancing between Derek and Stiles.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Great.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized scrolling through this now how often I use italics in this chapter. There's a lot of yelling, okay? 
> 
> Enjoy!

“This is a stupid plan,” Stiles informed Scott minutes later, as they tugged on Stormtrooper uniforms. Chewie was tying up the two men in the scanning crew, as well as the two Stormtroopers guards that had accompanied them. All four men were now knocked unconscious.

“Do you have a better one?” Scott asked. Stiles looked like he was about to retort something, but begrudgingly closed his mouth. “No,” he admitted.

“Okay, then,” Scott said, tugging on the helmet. “Let's go.”

Stiles sighed, but he pulled his helmet on as well. They stepped off the ship and into the hangar.

“You alright down there?” Scott immediately heard in his ear. He knew he couldn't reply, though; they would realize his voice was not the stormtrooper's. He and Stiles scanned the hangar, and quickly located the control booth— there were large glass windows, just to the left, probably a floor up. There was even an elevator. They could see the commander speaking to them over the commlink in the window.

“Hello?” the voice said again. “What's wrong with you two?”

Scott glanced over at Stiles, who looked right up at the commander in the window and tapped the side of his helmet.

“Oh, okay,” the voice said, then, quieter, like he was talking to the room, “We've got a bad commlink connection. We have to bring them up here.”

As soon as the commander was looking the other way, Stiles waved his hands wildly, beckoning Chewie, Derek, and the droids to come out. They emerged from the ship, zipped across the empty hangar, and hid behind shipping supplies next to the elevator. The commander was back at the window, and he gestured for Scott and Stiles to come up. They made their way to the elevator, quickly shepherding their other companions into it as well.

“You ready for this?” Stiles asked Scott, as Chewie handed them both blasters.

_ “No,” _ Scott said emphatically. Stiles laughed. 

They stood in front of the door to the command room, blasters ready. Scott tried to ignore the way his heart was pounding— this may have been his idea, but he’d never done anything like this before. Shooting down womp rats in a beat-up speeder on the sand dunes of Tatooine hadn’t exactly prepared him to take on the Empire. Scott’s stomach dropped as the door slid open, and the commander behind it stepped back in shock.

Behind them, Chewie roared. Stiles hit the man in the chest with a blaster bolt. 

Between Chewie and Stiles (who, Scott had to admit, were both excellent shots), they had knocked down the other two or three people in the room within seconds. The group entered the room, the door sliding closed behind them, Scott’s heart still racing. 

“Artoo, Threepio, connect to the main computer and see if you can figure out how to disable the tractor beam,” Derek instructed. Artoo connected to a computer port immediately, and started beeping back to C-3PO.

“Artoo says that there are 7 power generators for the tractor beam throughout the base,” C-3PO reported. “A loss of power in any one of them will disable the beam and allow the ship to leave.”

“Good,” Stiles said, sounding relieved. “Where are these things?”

C-3PO showed them a map on the screen. “The closest one is here, sir.”

“I’ll go,” Derek said quietly. He looked at Scott and Stiles, his expression growing harder. “You two stay here. And  _ don't _ do anything stupid.”

“Fine with me,” Stiles retorted. “This is already way more than I signed up for.”

“Wait, I want to go with you,” Scott said to Derek, following him to the door. Derek shook his head.

“No, stay here. Protect the droids,” Derek told him. “If anything happens to them, then the Rebellion is doomed. They need you.”

“Okay,” Scott agreed reluctantly. Derek  _ did _ have a point. If those droids were important enough to send a Star Destroyer after, they needed to be watched. “Good luck.”

Derek gave Scott a small smile. “Thanks. And Scott— the Force will be with you. Always.”

And with that, Derek disappeared out the door.

Scott glanced around. “Now what do we do?” he asked.

“Wait, I guess,” Stiles replied. “There isn't much else  _ to _ do.”

Scott sat at one of the chairs in front of the control panel, looking at the computers blankly. Even with the door locked and a blaster in his hand, he couldn’t shake the eerie feeling clinging to him— like something horrible was about to happen. Stiles sank into the chair next to him, immediately kicking his feet up onto the console in front of them. Clearly, he didn’t have the same uneasy feeling hanging over him.

“This sucks,” Stiles informed him. “Remind me why I took this flight again?”

“Because you desperately need our credits, I’m assuming?” Scott replied, turning to look at him. 

“Okay, you’re not wrong,” Stiles sighed, pulling an annoyed face. “I just hate waiting like this.” Chewie growled in agreement.

In the corner, Artoo started beeping excitedly. “What is it?” Scott asked, turning towards the droids in his chair. 

“I'm not sure, sir,” C-3PO replied. “He keeps saying, ‘I've found her,’ and ‘she's here.’”

“Who's here?” Scott asked, walking over to the droids.

“Princess Lydia,” Threepio replied. Scott's jaw dropped.

“Wait, the princess is  _ here?  _ Where?”

After more beeping from Artoo, Threepio translated, “Detention level A, cell 3A-11. And I'm afraid she'd scheduled to be executed.”

“What?” Scott breathed.  _ “Executed?  _ We've gotta do something, we've gotta help her!”

“Woah!” Stiles called from his chair across the room. “Slow down. We don't have to do anything. We're supposed to stay here.”

Scott turned to Stiles, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

“Are you kidding?” Scott demanded. “You were just complaining about how you don't want to sit here, and now you won't leave?”

“Yeah, waltzing down to the detention level? That’ll be  _ so _ easy to pull off.” His voice was dripping sarcasm again.

“Do you ever say  _ anything _ serious?” Scott demanded. Stiles looked offended.

“Hey, I'm 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. Sarcasm is my only defense.”

Scott groaned in frustration. “We  _ have _ to save her,” he insisted. “The droids belong to her. If Derek had known she was here, he would've—”

“Scott,  _ no,”  _ Stiles interrupted. “Enough of this newfound heroism. We're staying here.”

“And letting some girl  _ die?” _ Scott demanded. 

“Would you rather  _ we _ die?” Stiles snapped. “Do you not know how the Empire works? I used to be a part of this, Scott,” he continued, gaze steely and locked on Scott. “This isn’t some game, okay? The Empire is ruthless.” 

“Do you think I don’t  _ know _ that?” Scott retorted. “Just because I’m from some backwater, outer rim planet, that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot! Stormtroopers killed my parents this morning for  _ no reason!”  _ That certainly seemed to sober Stiles up. Scott continued, voice low and determined. “I’ve never been off Tatooine. I have these powers that I have no  _ idea _ how to control. And I’m terrified. But I can’t just let them kill someone else.” 

“That’s what the Empire does, Scott,” Stiles said, sounding almost tired. “They kill people who disagree with them for no reason other than that.” 

“I know. But if I can do something about that— save even one person— I’m going to.” 

Stiles was silent, his eyes locked on Chewbacca’s, seeming to be deep in a silent conversation. The wookiee whuffed something softly, and Stiles huffed in laughter. Regardless, Scott’s mind was made up. As much as it terrified him, he was going to save the princess. 

“I’m going,” Scott told Stiles. “You can stay here if you want, but I have to find the princess.” 

Stiles sat silently, before finally throwing an exasperated look towards Scott. “Okay. If—  _ hypothetically _ — we were to do this, how would we do it?”

Scott grinned. They could do this. They  _ would _ do this. 

Scott glanced around the room, trying to formulate a plan. He spotted a pair of handcuffs lying on the table, and got an idea.

“Threepio, hand me those binders,” he said, gesturing to the cuffs. The droid handed them over.

“Okay, Chewie,” Scott said, approaching the wookiee. “I'm just gonna put these on—” but Chewie had recoiled at Scott's action, growling ferociously. Scott backed away quickly. “Okay,  _ Stiles _ will put these on you.”

Stiles stood up, grinning. “Don't worry, Chewie, I think I know what his plan is.” He slipped the cuffs onto Chewie, with only mild protests.

“We’re really gonna do this?” Stiles asked again, double checking. 

Scott nodded immediately. “It’s the right thing to do.” 

Stiles pulled a face. “You are so  _ incredibly _ righteous,” he commented. “And for the record, that’s probably gonna get you killed.” 

Scott chose to ignore this, tugging on his helmet and grabbing a blaster. Stiles did the same, still shaking his head in disbelief, as the two made for the door.

“Excuse me, sir,” C-3PO interjected. “But what should we do if we're discovered?”

“Lock the door,” Stiles replied, grinning sarcastically. “And hope they don't have blasters.”

“You'll be fine,” Scott reassured them, before the trio slipped out the door.

***

Vader was furious.

“She  _ lied _ to us?” Vader demanded of Daehler. Daehler looked unamused.

“There are old structures that suggest a rebel base was at  _ some _ point there, but they're all abandoned by now. She's gutsier than we thought.”

“Stupid princess,” Vader said, still agitated. “Resists the mind probes, puts up with the torture, lets us drill  _ holes _ in her head, and still won't tell us where her base is. I've never met anyone so stubborn.”

“Well, it's a good thing we haven't killed her yet,” Daehler commented. “This rescue mission could be the key to finding that base.”

“I don't know,” Vader said. “I feel strange about this mission. I'm sure I felt the presence of that old Jedi, Derek Kenobi.”

“Well,” Daehler said, clearly done with the situation. “She won't talk, so it seems like the only way we'll figure out where they are is if we let them take her and track their ship.” He glanced at Vader. “This Jedi won't be a problem, right?”

“No,” Vader insisted. “I'll take care of him.”

***

Scott was surprised at how easy this had been so far.

He and Stiles guided Chewie down the hallway and to the main hall with no interruptions. Some people gave them a passing glance as they waited for the elevator, but no one stopped to question them, thankfully.

They made it into the lift to the detention level surprisingly easily. Once inside, Stiles loosened Chewie's handcuffs, so they looked closed, but the wookiee could get his hands loose easily.

“There's no way this is gonna work,” Stiles informed Scott. “This plan sucks.”

“Well, you didn't have any other ideas,” Scott retorted.

The lift arrived, and Stiles grumbled something under his breath Scott didn't catch, but he assumed was unpleasant. The doors slid open, and they found themselves faced with a room of commanders. One of the officers looked up from the control panels in front of him, glaring at them suspiciously.

“What are you doing?” he asked. He glanced at Chewbacca. “And what is this... thing?”

“Prisoner transport from Detention level B,” Stiles lied smoothly.

The commander narrowed his eyes. “I wasn't notified,” he replied. “I'll have to clear it.” He nodded to two guards in the corner, who came over to inspect Chewie.  The second they were close, though, Chewie yanked his hands out of the binders and whacked both men over the heads. They fell to the floor, motionless.

The room exploded into chaos.

“He's loose!” someone cried, but Scott had passed his blaster to Chewie, and he and Stiles were shooting everything in sight— guards, commanders, and every security camera. The alarms were going off, but Scott focused on dodging the incoming blaster fire from the guards. Finally, all the guards were lying motionless on the ground.

“Go find her,” Stiles ordered, dashing over to the control panel. He eyed the flashing commlink warily— realistically, he knew that he probably shouldn’t answer it, but if it went unanswered, they were even  _ more  _ likely to send troops down here as soon as possible. Grimacing, Stiles hit the button, hoping his Imperial academy training would kick in and they would buy it. 

“Uh... Sorry about that, everything's under control, situation... normal,” he reported, glancing nervously at Scott racing down the hall in front of them.

“What was that?” someone from the other line asked.

“Slight weapons malfunction,” Stiles lied, glancing around the room. “But it's fine now, under control. We're fine. We're all perfectly fine. Thank you. Uh, how are you?” he ad-libbed, cringing at his words.

“We're sending someone down,” the line said.

“No!” Stiles yelped. “Negative, negative— there's a reactor leak— just give us a few minutes to lock it down. Large leak, very dangerous.”

“Who  _ is _ this? What's your operating number?” demanded the other person.

“Uhh...” Stiles stuttered, before picking up his blaster and shooting the commlink. “Boring conversation anyway,” he muttered, looking at Scott. “Hey, we're gonna have company!” Stiles hollered. Scott glanced back at him before continuing up the hallway, his heart pounding as he surveyed the endless corridor of cells. 

Scott scanned the numbers on the sides of the cells, searching for 3A-11. This entire corridor was nothing but cells and cells and cells— dark durasteel doors in long rows, barely any space between them. And this was just  _ part _ of the detention level— he was sharply reminded again of how cruel and unforgiving the Empire could be. 

Finally Scott found the cell, and hit an array of buttons on the control panel, hoping one would work. Thankfully, the door slid open, and Scott stepped into the cell.

Princess Lydia lifted her head from the metal bench she was laying on and looked straight at him.

Scott stopped dead. He'd thought in the hologram she looked mature and powerful, but up close, he could see she was barely older than him. She was wearing the same flowing white dress, and her strawberry blonde hair was twisted into the same two elegant hair buns. Her face, though, looked different— she looked weak, and hungry, and tired, and pained. Despite all that, she still gave off an aura of power and poise, and he could see that behind the pain and exhaustion in her wide green eyes, there was still a glimmer of hope there.

“Aren't you kind of short for a Stormtrooper?” she asked, raising a perfect eyebrow at Scott.

Scott was flabbergasted. “What?” he replied. He could have sworn she chuckled. “Oh! The uniform,” he said, remembering what he was wearing. He tugged the helmet off his head, dropping it on the floor. “Sorry. I'm Scott Skywalker. I'm here to rescue you!”

He expected more of a reaction to this, but she just sat up and raised her eyebrow even higher, her lips pursing in disbelief. “You're who?” she demanded.

“Scott,” he said impatiently. “I've got your R2 unit. I'm here with Derek Kenobi.”

“Wait, Derek Kenobi?” she yelped, leaping to her feet. That, apparently, meant something to her. “He’s  _ here?  _ Where?”

“Come on,” Scott said, gesturing to the hallway. “I'll take you to him!”


	7. Chapter 7

This day was not going as Stiles had anticipated.

He figured by now he would have dropped off Scott and Derek, been back to Tatooine, and paid off Jackson. He’d been planning to go out tonight, celebrate that his debts were paid, revel in the fact that for once, gangsters weren’t shaking him down for money he didn’t have. 

He did  _ not _ think he'd be racing down the hallway of some giant Empire space station, dressed as a Stormtrooper, trying to rescue some stuck up princess with the help of a floppy haired nineteen year old with a hero complex.

Scott emerged from a doorway down the hallway, almost running into Stiles as he exited the cell. Stiles sighed in relief at the sight of the other boy. They had to move fast if they wanted to get out of here before more Stormtroopers showed up and  _ they _ were arrested too. 

“Have you got her?” Stiles demanded. “We don’t have much time.” 

“Yeah,” Scott replied, stepping further out into the hallway, letting the princess follow him out of the cell.

Immediately, Stiles froze. 

She was  _ tiny,  _ Stiles thought— way too tiny for the aura of power she was giving off— she barely reached his shoulder. She didn't seem a day older than Scott, but the way she held herself, even now, when she looked like she hadn't eaten in about a week— her shoulders straight, head high, green eyes piercing— this girl was clearly royalty. Her strawberry blonde hair was twisted up into two enormous hair buns on each side of her head, which should have looked ridiculous, but somehow worked for her. He could see her shivering through the thin white dress hanging off her frame— Stiles imagined those metal cells were probably freezing— and after spending who knows how long cooped up in here, scheduled for execution— Stiles would have been terrified. If she was scared, she didn’t show it; her gaze didn’t waver, eyes fixed on him, an unamused and unimpressed expression on her face, her hands resting lightly on her hips. 

_ Stars, _ she was beautiful. Stiles wasn’t sure if he was terrified of her or falling in love with her. 

“What are you doing?” Scott demanded, yanking him out of his reverie. “We have to get back to the lift!”

“No, we blasted it!” Stiles reminded him. “The only way out is down this hall.”

As if on cue, about ten Stormtroopers appeared at the end of the hall.

“Great,” Stiles muttered. “I told you this was a bad plan.”

“Too late now!” Scott said, diving behind an archway for shelter, and dragging Chewie with him. Stiles took cover under the arch across the hallway, shoving Lydia behind him, since she was unarmed, as the Stormtroopers opened fire.

“Here!” Stiles cried, tossing Scott an extra blaster they'd picked up from the control room. Scott fumbled to catch it, and Stiles almost groaned, reminded again at how drastically outnumbered and outskilled they were here. 

Stiles tried to aim down the hallway, but behind their cover, it was hard to see anything. He hoped he was hitting stormtroopers, but blaster bolts kept speeding towards them. 

“This is great!” Lydia replied sarcastically. Her voice was high and pretty, and gave off an aura of authority and power. “Some rescue!”

“We don't need your sass, your highness!” Stiles retorted. “Scott, we can't hold them, we have to go somewhere or we're sitting banthas!”

“I don't know where to go!” Scott replied, helpless. Stiles wanted to knock his head against the wall. “There’s no way out of here!” 

“Give me this!” the princess said suddenly, yanking his blaster out of his hands. Stiles just stood, flabbergasted, as she shot a gaping hole in a grate in the wall labeled, “GARBAGE CHUTE.”

“What the hell are you  _ doing?”  _ Stiles cried, reaching for his blaster back. But Lydia was already in the middle of the hallway, shooting troopers with deadly accuracy.

“Shut up and let me save your lives!” she cried, ducking behind Scott. She tossed Stiles his blaster back, which he caught, still stunned.

“Get in!” she said to Scott, gesturing to the gaping chunk of missing grate. Scott obediently leapt through the hole. 

“You, too!” she cried, her eyes burning into his. “Into the garbage chute, flyboy!”

“Ladies first, your highness!” he called back, dashing across the hall. She huffed at him, but jumped in none the less.

“Just my luck,” he muttered to himself. “A princess. Seriously.” Chewie heard him and laughed.

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbled, shoving the wookiee into the garbage chute. He jumped down with only mild protest, before Stiles followed him.

Once he landed in the garbage disposal, knee deep in murky water, it became painstakingly obvious they were once again trapped. The door out was sealed shut, and there were no control panels inside.

Stiles shot the door in anger with his blaster.

“Are you insane?” Lydia yelped. “Get down!” The shot ricocheted off the walls, before finally hitting the pool of water in between the two large mountains of trash against each wall.

“Well, this is great,” Stiles said sarcastically. “We're stuck. Again. And the smell— it doesn't get much better than this!”

Lydia gave him a look that could kill. “I didn’t see you coming up with any brilliant plans,” she retorted. If they weren’t minutes away from certain death, Stiles probably would have stopped to marvel at how sharp and quick-witted this girl was. Even in their current situation, with her screaming and all of them knee-deep in trash, he was half-sure he was in love with her. 

“There has to be a way out,” Scott said, ever the optimist. “Maybe we can—” Scott froze.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“There's something in here,” Scott said. “In the water.”

“Don't be paranoid,” Stiles insisted. Scott jumped backwards in fear.

“Something just went past my leg, I swear!”

“Scott, you're overreacting—” Stiles started, but then Scott disappeared under the water.

“Scott!” he and Lydia cried out in unison.

“Where did he go?” Lydia yelped, frantically turning and looking for any signs of movement.

“Yes, because if I knew where he was, I would continue to stand here and let whatever creature's in here drown him!” Stiles snapped back, trying to see through the murky water. Chewie howled in anguish.

Then, Scott appeared again.

“Scott!” Stiles cried in relief, rushing over to help the other boy, who was coughing and sputtering.

“What happened?” Lydia inquired, appearing behind Stiles's elbow. “What was that?”

“I don't know,” Scott said, still in shock. “It dragged me under, but then... It just let me go and disappeared.”

Lydia looked relieved, if not puzzled, but Stiles was starting to think this was a little too sketchy.

“I don't know,” he said, surveying the room. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

His bad feeling proved to be true, because suddenly, the walls started moving in.

It then dawned on Stiles that they weren't in a garbage disposal— they were in a trash compactor.

“Uh, guys— the walls are closing in,” Scott said, aghast.

Stiles swore. Seriously, this was at  _ least _ the tenth time his life was in danger today.

“Thanks, Scott, I had no idea,” Stiles replied, almost rolling his eyes.

“Come on, we need to brace it with something!” the princess instructed, grabbing a long pole from the pile of trash and swinging it around to brace it in between the walls. “Help me!” she demanded, fixing Stiles with a pointed look; he obliged, not wanting to get his head ripped off.

“This isn't gonna be strong enough!” Stiles informed her. The walls were still closing in at the same speed, and the pole was just bowing under the pressure. “Come on, get on top of it!” He grabbed Lydia's waist—  _ kest _ , she was small; he could practically fit his whole hand across her back— and pulled her on top of the pile of garbage they were standing on, trying to climb to the top.

“The commlink!” Scott suddenly exclaimed, knee deep in garbage. Chewie howled, but Scott pulled out the commlink unit they had nicked from the control room. C-3PO had the other link.

“Threepio! Come in, Threepio!” Scott hollered into the commlink. “Threepio!” He didn't get a response.

“What do we do?” Lydia cried in anguish, her green eyes locked on Stiles. Stiles lost his train of thought for a minute, distracted by her.

“I don't know, Princess,” he said, defeated. She looked like she was about to cry.

“Threepio!” Scott called into the commlink desperately. “Please, come in!”

There was less than a meter of space between the two walls now.

“Sir?” A voice echoed from the commlink. Scott nearly dropped it in his excitement. “I'm so sorry, we—”

“That's okay, just listen!” Scott cried. “We need you to shut down all the trash compactors on the detention level! Shut them down! Quick!”

“Oh, yes, sir!” Threepio replied, panicky. “Artoo, shut them down! Shut them all down! Oh, hurry!”

There was maybe half a yard of space between the walls now. Stiles was starting to feel really claustrophobic.  _ This is how I die _ , he thought.  _ Stuck in a garbage chute, surrounded by the biggest idiots in the galaxy. _

Then again, he  _ had  _ followed them into the compactor in the first place, so it wasn't completely their fault.

He looked at Lydia again, the bottom of her dress clinging to her legs and her eyes full of fear— and the walls stopped.

They were silent for a second before they realized what had happened.

Then Chewie howled in happiness, and Scott erupted into whooping cheers.

“You did it, C-3PO!” he cried into the commlink. “You saved us!”

Lydia's smile spanned her whole face, and Stiles didn't think he'd ever seen anything so beautiful. She lunged towards him and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. Stiles was shocked into silence, but he hugged her back.

“Hey, can you open the door for us too?” Scott was asking into the commlink. A second later, the door swung open.

“Let's get out of here,” Scott said, moving as quickly as he could towards the open door.

“Let's hope Derek got the tractor beam down,” Stiles added.

“He will have,” Scott insisted.

“Whatever you say, buddy.”

***

Finding the power generator was easier than Derek thought it would be. 

These Imperial ships were built like a maze, but Derek still managed to navigate the corridors, following Threepio’s instructions to the generator. He had forgotten how simple it was to slip silently from hiding spot to hiding spot, using the Force to shield himself. Stormtroopers were patrolling the halls, but he easily hid out of sight in the deep niches in the walls. They were so easy to manipulate with the Force, too— their minds were weak, completely programmed for obedience. Anytime one of them heard Derek, he easily pushed the stormtrooper away with the Force, reassuring them that nothing was there. He felt like he was back on a mission in the Clone Wars, sneaking and hiding and using the Force so freely. Hidden on Tatooine, there hadn't been much reason for him to sneak around.

Once he actually reached the power generator, Derek stared at it for a moment, contemplating. If he just sliced through it with his lightsaber, he'd definitely set off an alarm. He'd like to avoid the Empire knowing they'd ever been there— though that seemed unlikely with Solo and his wookiee blundering around.

Derek studied the switches, before finally pulling a lever cautiously. Sure enough, it turned off the power, and no alarms went off. Catlike and silent, he slipped away from the power generator, slinking back into the corridor he’d come down, deftly sealing the doors behind him, so that hopefully no Stormtroopers would realize something was awry.

Now he just had to get back to the hangar without running into Vader. 

Derek knew Vader was looking for him— he knew Vader had sensed him on the ship, because he had felt the same, had instinctively reached out to his old friend— the old, familiar presence of the Jedi he had known had been overwhelming, flooding his senses, making Derek miss the person Vader had been even more. A person Derek could trust and rely on. Someone he had loved. The Force signature Vader gave off had felt different, though. Darker.

He remembered watching the silvery rings around his best friend's eyes bleed into black over the fiery pits of Mustafar. Hearing the screams of _ “I hate you!”  _ as the only person he’d really loved burned.

It had been twenty years since that fateful battle. He tried to forget about what had happened then, so long ago. Derek had left his best friend for dead. He remembered telling Talia, after she told him to kill Vader: “I can't do it. It would be like losing a limb.” Even then, even now, he still meant it. They had been a flawless team, the perfect combination of smarts and skill to take on any mission during the war. The Jedi he had known back then had changed his life more than he cared to admit. 

He couldn't imagine how any human could recover from the state he'd left them in, literally burning on the fiery lava flow banks of Mustafar, but the Sith had their ways. If only Derek had caught on sooner— his friend had deserved so much more than this, than being reduced to this machine—

Lost in thought, Derek turned a corner, not thinking to use his wolf senses to scan the corridor beforehand. He immediately stopped dead, breath catching, and he felt his eyes burn bright blue of their own accord. 

Vader was standing right in front of him.

***

In an empty alcove of the station, Scott and Stiles stripped out of the Stormtrooper uniforms they still had on, leaving them in their normal clothes.

“I am so ready to be out of here,” Stiles sighed, glancing at the group. Lydia was wringing out her dress, and Chewie grumbled in agreement, picking pieces of garbage out of his fur.

“Ready to go?” Stiles asked everyone, stepping out into the corridor.

“Careful!” Lydia hissed, but it was too late. Stiles almost stepped on a surveillance droid rolling along the hallway, which promptly started ringing like an alarm. Chewie howled.

“Shut up,” Stiles muttered, blasting the droid until it was silent. He  _ hated _ those things. They reminded him of living in the Imperial Academy dorms, where they patrolled night and day. Giving the smoking machinery one last glare, Stiles turned back to the group, and was immediately faced with an angry princess.

“Are you out of your  _ mind?” _ she demanded. “You know, between your blasting, and his hollering,” she spat, jerking her head towards Chewbacca, “you're gonna get us caught!”

Stiles had had enough of her sass.  _ He _ was supposed to be the sarcastic one, for star's sake.

“Would you calm down?” he retorted, staring down at her. She had her arms crossed menacingly, and she was staring daggers again. “I took care of it.”

“Look,” Lydia said. “I don't know who you are, or where you came from. But from now on, you two—” she turned back to glare at Scott too— “listen to me. Okay?”

“No,  _ not _ okay!” Stiles cried indignantly. “Look, your— your  _ worship _ —  _ we’re _ the ones rescuing  _ you _ here, and  _ I’m _ the one with the ship—”

Lydia laughed, huffing out her breath.

“I didn’t ask you to rescue me,” she retorted. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” 

“You were slated for  _ execution!”  _

“Will you two shut up so we can get out of here?” Scott said, annoyed.

Both Stiles and Lydia opened their mouths to protest, but the look Scott gave them was enough to send them both into silence.

***

“Derek,” Darth Vader said, tone even, standing stoic in front of Derek, almost inhumanly still. It reminded Derek of how much of his friend was machine now; he  _ had _ stayed in contact with the Rebellion, all these years, and heard plenty of stories— he knew what had happened to Vader—what the Emperor had done to ensure his new apprentice’s survival. But still, nothing truly prepared him for the raspy, mechanical voice that had replaced the voice of his lost best friend.

“Darth Vader,” Derek replied, almost mockingly— he’d never been able to take the Sith’s fondness for having code names seriously. This person may look completely different and have a different name, but Derek knew the person Vader had been before— fighting style, strengths, weaknesses. He wasn't scared of his old friend. 

“I thought I felt you on board,” Vader said, pacing the length of the hallway leisurely. Apparently, Vader wasn’t afraid either. “Come to rescue your little princess? I see you still haven’t seen the errors of the Republic. You still are fighting with the Rebellion.”

Derek smirked. “I always will be. You know that.”

But he read into Vader's words. Derek hadn't realized that Princess Lydia was  _ here, _ on this station. Oh, the irony— if Vader only knew who she  _ truly _ was...

“Well, it will be in vain. If you still won’t join me, we’ll finish what you started on Mustafar,” Vader said, drawing a different lightsaber than the one Derek knew and turning it on. It was a new one— red, this time. The signature blade of a Sith wolf.

Derek smirked, his eyes flashing, as he drew his lightsaber too. “We'll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, Stiles and Lydia FINALLY meet. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think! Feel free to leave a comment, or find me on tumblr and twitter-- I'm stilesssolo on both! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late! Two chapters are up tonight, though, because I'm gonna be away next week with EXTREMELY limited internet access, so hopefully that makes up for it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm stilesssolo on Tumblr and Twitter if you want to come chat!

Slowly and cautiously, Lydia and the others made their way back through the twisting hallways, checking around corners for guards and security droids. Stiles and Scott were in the front, blasters ready, with their wookiee bringing up the rear. To their luck, they encountered no one— the hallways were eerily quiet. Lydia had been in a haze of pain most of the time they’d dragged her down the corridors to and from torture sessions, but she didn’t remember the hallways ever being  _ this _ empty. Something twisted in her gut, a feeling of uneasiness— escaping couldn’t be this easy. There had to be a catch. 

They finally made it back to the hallway overlooking the hangar where Stiles’s ship waited. There were a couple of Stormtroopers in the hangar, but other than that, the room was again deserted. That uneasiness in her stomach flared— it couldn’t be this simple, could it? 

Lydia took one look at the Falcon, in all of its run-down glory, and turned to Stiles, impressed. “You came in  _ that?”  _ she asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “You're braver than I thought.”

Stiles gave her a lopsided grin— the first time she'd actually seen him smile. Her heart jumped a beat, but she put it down to nerves.

“So how do we get down there?” she asked.

“This way, I think,” Scott said, leading them down the hallway. They turned a corner, and Lydia’s stomach dropped as they were met with three Stormtroopers, blasters raised.

This didn't seem to faze Stiles, as he beckoned to Chewie, and the two of them chased the troopers down the hallway, yelling and hollering and blasting everything in sight.

“Well, he's an idiot, but he's definitely brave,” Lydia commented, glancing at Scott. Scott nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

“Come on, this way,” Scott said, grabbing Lydia and tugging her down the hall the opposite way. They raced around a corner, down a flight of stairs, and around another corner, until Scott stopped short, and Lydia almost rammed into him.

They were on a ledge of an extendable bridge, overlooking what seemed like a bottomless pit. There was maybe a ten yard gap between them and the other platform of the bridge. Lydia peered over the edge of the walkway— the bridge wasn’t extended— and shivered, feeling a sudden and urgent compulsion to step backwards as far as possible. The chasm below them stretched down for what seemed like miles, into empty darkness with no end in sight. 

“What is even the  _ point _ of this?” Lydia said, subtly stepping back from the platform edge, hovering next to Scott. “Why would you build a bottomless pit in the middle of a space station? It doesn't make any sense architecturally or structurally— or in general, really.”

Scott shrugged. “Makes them seem more evil, I guess,” he suggested, examining the control panel. Lydia looked at it too, looking for something to extend the bridge. She froze, her blood going icy, her heart pounding at the so familiar sound of boots marching in perfect synchronization— a sound that over the past week she’d come to associate with another round of torture. Turning slowly, her heartbeat frantic, Lydia spotted them: Stormtroopers at the end of the hallway, coming their way. 

“Uh, Scott,” she said, gripping his arm. “We've got company.”

“Sith,” he whispered, glancing at the Stormtroopers.

Lydia wrestled his blaster out of his arms, steeling her nerves, determined to get through this. If she was going to get out of here  _ and _ get the plans to the Rebellion  _ and _ stop the Empire, she was going to need to be brave. “You close the door,” she instructed Scott. “I'll hold them off.” Scott nodded, pounding the control panel, and the door slammed down just as the troopers opened fire.

“There's no lock,” Scott said in a panicky voice, looking at Lydia. Lydia's brain darted through different possibilities, before she finally just copied Stiles's tactics and blasted the control panel.

“That'll hold them for a minute,” she said. “Can we get the bridge to work still? Or is there another way to get across?”

Scott's face lit up. “I have this,” he said, pulling a grappling hook and line out of one of the pouches from his belt. “I didn't know this morning if I'd get stuck in the canyon trying to get Artoo out—”

“Look out!” Lydia cried, pushing Scott back into the corner between the wall and the door frame. Stormtroopers had appeared on a ledge higher up the chasm, opening fire. 

“You do that,” Lydia said, gesturing to the line. She peeked around the corner, lining up her blaster and taking aim at the Stormtroopers, while still maintaining cover in the little niche. She hit one Stormtrooper square in the chest, and he fell, another tripping over him and toppling into the chasm.

“See?” Lydia asked pointedly. “The bottomless pit thing makes no sense!”

“Well, if they're falling, and not me, I'm not complaining!” Scott cried, as he stepped forward on the platform, swinging the hook up and over a beam higher up. Lydia could hear the pounding of Stormtroopers on the door next to her as she aimed at the squad above her, and her heart echoed the frantic beating rhythm, adrenaline pumping through her veins. 

“Ready?” Scott said, winding his foot into the rope to hold himself. She tucked the blaster into her belt and wrapped her arms around Scott, hoping that this worked. She  _ had _ only met this guy about half an hour ago, and while he seemed to know what he was doing for the most part—  _ and _ he knew Derek Kenobi, who, according to her mother, was an intelligent, sensible general— still, there was no guarantee this would work. If that cord didn’t hold up, she’d be falling to her death in a minute. Lydia’s nerves fluttered, but glancing at the door behind them, Stormtroopers’ fists still pounding out an irregular percussion, the decision was easy to make. Anything that took her away from them and away from this place was worth the risk. 

“Ready,” she told Scott, nodding her head once definitively. Scott wound his arm around her waist and grasped the rope, then took a little running start before they were swinging over the pit. With a lack of coordination and grace, they tumbled onto the opposite platform, scrambling around the corner just as the Stormtroopers made it through the closed door.

Relief flooded her body at the feel of solid ground beneath her again, and she exhaled, peeking around the corner at the horde of Stormtroopers still firing at them. Next to her, Scott picked himself up off the floor, also heaving a sigh of relief that they had somehow managed to pull that off. 

They finally made it to the hall off of the hangar, where Stiles and Chewie were waiting. “Where have you been?” Stiles demanded, looking at them.

“Oh, you know, fighting off Stormtroopers,” Lydia spit back. “Escaping death. The usual.”

“Okay,” Scott said. “The droids. And Derek. And then we're out of here.” He spoke into the commlink again. “Threepio, where are you guys?”

“We are safe, in a room off of the main hangar, sir. Artoo says that the shields have been disabled,” Threepio reported. “According to the ship's main computer.”

“Then Derek did it,” Stiles said, sounding impressed. “Only question is, where is he?”

Lydia saw a flash of light out of the corner of her eye, and turning to see what it was, found the answer to their question.

“There,” she whispered, pointing to an open hallway off the hangar. Derek was there, indeed— and so was Darth Vader.

The light that had caught her eye was the flare from the two connecting lightsabers.

“Stars,” Scott muttered, looking wide eyed at the duel. “Is that—”

“Darth Vader,” Lydia confirmed, dread filling her stomach, every cell of her body screaming to  _ run, run, run away.  _ She could feel her body shaking as she said to Scott, voice low: “Trust me, we definitely want to avoid him.”

Scott glanced at her darkly. “Yeah, I figured. He murdered my father.”

Lydia didn't know if he was expecting sympathy, but she was not in the mood, especially after the day she was having. “Yeah, well, he exploded my planet today,” she informed him, not exactly willing to go into detail about the amount of torture she’d been through at his hand. Stiles turned to her, comprehension on his face.

“That's why Alderaan wasn't where it was supposed to be,” he said. “Because it's nowhere, period.”

Lydia held in her tears. She would not let this insensitive, rude,  _ nerfherder _ make her cry.  _ It’s not his fault, _ she tried to convince herself, biting her lip.  _ It’s not his fault that he can’t fathom the amount of physical pain caused by watching your home get destroyed.  _

Stiles seemed to sense this, because he turned to her, eyes suddenly wide, lips slightly parted. “Kest, that was super insensitive,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Lydia nodded slightly, looking away from him and wrapping her arms around herself, still shaking. This hanger was  _ freezing.  _

“Look,” she said, peeking into the hangar, determined to focus on something else. She was saving her grieving for later. Now, she had to survive and get out of here, get back to the Rebellion and stop this from happening to any other planet ever again. The few Stormtroopers standing guard had moved away from the Falcon, over to the other hall, to watch the battle. “This is our chance; the ship's unguarded. Let's go.”

“There are the droids,” Stiles said, pointing to a different door that had slid open. C-3PO and R2-D2 must have had the same idea, because they were hurrying towards them.

Scott was still watching the battle with rapt attention.

“Uh, Scott,” Stiles said, shaking his companion's shoulder. “We've gotta go. Get on board, quick.”

The droids seemed to have no issue with this order, quickly speeding up the loading ramp and into the ship. Scott was still fixed in his one spot.

“Do not even  _ think _ about it, buddy,” Stiles immediately said, tone stern. “You have done enough hero-ing for one day, and I saw you practicing earlier— you still have  _ no _ idea how to use that lightsaber.” 

“But—” Scott started, but Stiles shook his head again. 

“Nope. No way. Absolutely not.” 

“Scott, Derek can handle himself,” Lydia said. “We need to get to safety so that when he runs over here we can  _ leave.”  _

“Very good point; listen to the Princess,” Stiles added. “Now, let’s go.” 

Reluctantly, Scott began to move, Stiles hanging behind them to make sure his companion didn’t lag behind or run off and do something stupidly brave. Stiles’s hand dropped to Lydia’s lower back, guiding her forward with his gentle touch, and she couldn’t help it— before she even realized what he was doing she jumped violently, turning and glaring at him. She’d had enough strange people touching her and stabbing her with needles and drugging her to last a lifetime. 

Stiles shot her an apologetic look, retracting his hand, but Lydia still felt shaken. The first thing she was doing after she got back to base and handed over these plans was going to the med center, getting a sedative, and sleeping for a week. 

Maybe by the time she woke up, the sharp pain of losing her family and home would have dulled just a little bit. 

***

“You've fallen out of practice, Derek,” Vader said, blocking Derek's stroke. Vader certainly had improved— the Jedi Derek had known was always a good swordsman, but it was clear the Emperor had taught his apprentice more— Vader fought like a Sith Wolf now.

“Well, you know,” Derek countered, slashing upwards and catching Vader's blade again. “Not a lot of people to duel when you're in hiding.”

“Still witty, I see.” Vader's blade caught Derek's shoulder just barely, and he winced at the pain.

Derek was drained. He didn't want to relive this battle— he already did, every night, in his nightmares. He saw his best friend, the person he loved and trusted most, struggling up the burnt banks of Mustafar, fighting, with every last ounce of strength left, to kill him. He could see it all— dark hair, eyes once silvery and pure bleeding into black, mottled, burned skin— a person rendered completely unrecognizable, both inside and out. But the anger in those eyes— it was pure and primal and unbridled. Something completely of the dark side. His best friend’s voice echoed in his ears every single night, screaming the last words Derek had heard from them. _“Where are they, Derek? Tell me where they are!”_ It played on loop in his nightmares, dispersed between cries of _“I hate you!”_ Every time he dreamed, he was forced to watch as his friend destroyed everything, and he stood, powerless, on the sides, watching the Jedi die and the Republic fail...

He was so tired. When this war had started— Derek had never thought it would last this long.

He looked his lost best friend in the eye— for a moment, through the mask, he thought he could see the bright blue eyes, the long curls, the cocky, crooked grin— his words to Talia rang in his head.  _ I can't do it.  _ Not now, not then. He couldn’t kill Vader. Regardless of what Vader had done and had become— Derek still couldn’t bring himself to do it. The Force swelled inside him, expansive and consuming, and he somehow just  _ knew.  _ This was it. There was no victorious end to this battle, not anytime soon. He couldn’t keep fighting anymore— he was so  _ sick  _ of fighting, and in his gut, he knew what had to happen here. Scott and the others had to escape, but Derek didn’t. His fight had been doomed long ago. With one last parry, Derek stepped back from Vader, his opponent pausing, lightsaber blade hovering, calculating the next strike. Derek inhaled, surprised at how calm he felt. Vader stepped forward, stance aggressive, but Derek didn’t move. 

_ Scott,  _ he thought. There was so much more to teach him, so much more to tell him. So much Derek had wanted to say and explain. But he was destined to end it all, to bring peace to the whole galaxy— and Derek knew he would succeed. He didn’t need to be there for that. His destiny would be fulfilled today. 

With one last glance at his old friend, Derek  raised his lightsaber, eyes sliding closed, before the world dissolved into darkness. 


	9. Chapter 9

Scott could almost tell what was going to happen before it did.

Derek looked right at Darth Vader, pausing in their duel, standing still in front of the other man. He held his blue lightsaber raised in front of his face, in what almost looked like surrender. Vader pulled back his own red blade, and with a long, sweeping motion, cut Derek down.

Derek fell to the ground, motionless, and Scott could feel the electric flow of the Force through him contract.

“No!” he yelped, catching the attention of the lingering Stormtroopers, who turned on them and opened fire. A hand shoved him out of the way, and when he looked up, he saw Stiles standing over him, shooting back at the Stormtroopers.

“Get on  _ board!” _ Stiles snapped. “You too, your worship!” he ordered Lydia. Scott didn't know what else to do, so he followed Lydia on board the Falcon, almost in a trance.

Stiles and Chewie appeared moments later, and Stiles grabbed Scott, pushing him down the hall into the cockpit. “Sit down, buckle up,” he ordered, jumping into the captain's chair and grabbing the controls. Chewie sat next to him, grabbing controls as well and growling. “Come on... Come on...” Stiles muttered. “Okay— yes!” They were in the air, soaring out of the hangar, the tractor beam no longer pulling them in. The Millennium Falcon shot past the Death Star, heading back into space.

“This seems too easy,” Lydia commented. “They're not even following us.”

Stiles turned to her, aghast. “You think that was easy? Did you miss the trash compactor? Or the numerous people  _ shooting _ at us?”

Scott looked up from his lap, just in time to see Lydia roll her eyes, arms crossed defensively. “No, of course not. But they're not chasing us down... And at the end, they could have shot the ship down, with the firepower on that Death Star...” She trailed off, before her eyes lit up, realization dawning on her. “They're tracking us.”

Stiles scoffed. “They can't be.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed. In all honesty, Lydia was probably right, Scott thought— she seemed like the type of person who was seldom wrong. 

“They must be,” she retorted. “They must have checked Dantooine, and realized the base wasn't there— and they knew I would gladly die before I told them, so they let me go. And now, they'll just follow us back to the base.”

“I've made a lot of special modifications to the ship. She gives off special frequencies that interfere with tracking devices. Comes in handy for smuggling,” Stiles explained, glancing between her and the controls. “You can't track her. It's impossible.”

Lydia raised her eyebrows in skepticism. Scott imagined that after everything she’d just gone through, the thought of being followed by the Empire must be terrifying. Hell,  _ he _ was terrified, and he hadn’t even been their prisoner. 

“We're good to make the jump to lightspeed,” Stiles said, glancing at Chewie. “Where are we going, your worship?” Stiles said sarcastically, turning to Lydia.

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him. “I can't tell you.”

“What do you mean,  _ you can't tell me?”  _ he retorted.

Lydia gave him a look. “It's a secret base. If any word of our location gets back to the Empire, the Rebellion is doomed. I've already watched my people die today.” Her voice quieted. “I don't want to watch freedom die too.”

“Wow, that was beautifully inspirational,” Stiles said sarcastically. “It brought a tear to my eye.” Lydia made a face at him.

“Listen, your highness,” Stiles continued, his look dangerously annoyed, “I really don’t give a shit about your Rebellion. I'm here for what Derek promised to pay me. And I can't get paid if you don't  _ tell me where we’re going.” _

“You'll get your reward, don't worry,” Lydia spat back. “But I can't risk the Empire finding our location. And I'm sorry, but I don't trust you.”

“It's okay, Lydia,” Scott said quietly. Both of them whipped around to face him, their faces equally shocked, but in different ways— Lydia’s eyes were wide in disbelief, while Stiles’s expression made it clear he was  _ not _ used to people standing up for him. “Stiles won't say anything. I trust him.” He meant it, too. Stiles may have been a smuggler he met approximately six hours ago, but no in-it-only-for-the-money criminal would agree to go rescue a princess he’d never met, with the threat of imperial imprisonment looming overhead. Scott knew that below his sarcastic, could-care-less exterior, Stiles was someone who could be counted on. 

_ “Thank _ you, Scott,” Stiles said, grinning at Scott. “I may not care about your revolution, but I definitely don't have any love for the Empire. They caused me trouble a little while back with my boss, and when I was in the Academy— anyway, I'm not gonna tell them where you are.”

Lydia looked warily at Scott. Clearly she was struggling with this, not that Scott blamed her— she’d only just met them. Still, he assumed she really didn't have any other way to get back, anyway. She was too recognizable in the core worlds, and the Empire would definitely have eyes out for her, if they intended to follow her home. He saw her shoulders slump, giving in, as she turned to Stiles, hovering by the navicomputer. 

“Yavin 4,” she told him reluctantly. He nodded, turning to the computer and starting to calculate coordinates for hyperspace. 

As Stiles and Lydia’s argument quieted, grief rolled over Scott again. 

Today had been way too long of a day. First finding out about his father, how he really died, then losing his parents, then losing  _ Derek _ — how would he become a Jedi now? He was supposed to help everyone and stop the Empire— without someone to show him how to use his powers, how was he supposed to do that? He couldn’t figure this out by himself. 

Lydia came over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at her, and her green eyes were full of sympathy.

“I'm sorry about Derek,” she said softly. Her voice was calm, but there was pain in it too, albeit being well-masked. He had forgotten, in his grief, that she was looking for Derek as well— that she had needed him to return with her to Alderaan. And then he remembered her planet, and what the Empire had done to her home— he had lost his family today, but she had lost her whole world.

“I'm sorry too,” he said, looking up at her, his eyes sincere. “Lydia, I'm so sorry about Alderaan.”

She looked away from him, down at the floor, her eyes empty. “Thank you,” she said, but it didn’t sound heartfelt— more like a voluntary reflex, like when someone died and people told you they were sorry, and you had nothing else to do except thank them, even if it changed nothing. “It feels surreal. I watched it happen, and I still can't believe it's gone.”

Scott nodded. “I understand that.”

Lydia opened her mouth to say something else, but before she could, her eyes fluttered, and she stumbled forward, toppling into Scott’s arms. 

“Princess?” Stiles said, standing up and rushing over, his expression full of concern. Scott looked behind him, saw the rush of light out the windows— he hadn't even noticed, but they had entered hyperspace. 

“She’s bleeding,” Scott realized, one hand bracing the back of her neck, his fingers suddenly slick with the blood trickling down her neck. 

“It’s…” Lydia tried to say, eyes fluttering, her body stirring slightly. But Stiles’s fingers were in her hair, tugging her bun out of the way, finding the source of the blood. Stiles gagged, and then Scott saw it— a round hole, maybe an inch across, shallow but gory, dripping blood down her neck. 

“I’m fine,” Lydia managed to get out, struggling to break away from Scott and Stiles. 

“You are— that’s not  _ fine!”  _ Stiles shot back, his voice strangled. 

“What did they  _ do _ to you?” Scott demanded. Lydia’s eyes were more open now, more awake— she seemed to have fully regained consciousness. 

“What does it  _ look _ like, Scott?” Stiles snapped. “They drilled a kriffing hole in her head.” 

“I am  _ okay,”  _ Lydia insisted, despite the boys’ protests. She freed herself of Scott’s arms, standing up again. “Really.” 

Stiles looked like he was going to punch something. Scott was starting to feel similar urges. He could tell by the look on Lydia's face she was very aware that the hole in her head was  _ not _ fine, but she was putting it off in order to finish her mission and help the Rebellion.

Scott didn't think he'd ever met anyone so brave.

“Seriously, Lydia,” Stiles demanded, stepping closer. Lydia had none of it, immediately taking a step back, face steely. 

“I’ve had enough of strangers invading my personal space this week,” she snapped. “I’ll be fine. I can clean it up. I'm assuming you have a refresher on board?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, immediately taking a step back. “Yeah, there's one right off the main hold— there are bacta patches in there too, you can use whatever you need—”

“I'll go with you,” Scott volunteered, standing up. “I know where the hold is.” He showed Lydia out of the cockpit, and together they found the 'fresher off of the hold. Lydia rushed over to the sink, unpinning one of her large hair buns, and pulling her hair aside. Scott grimaced at the sight of the wound in Lydia’s head— it looked enormously painful, raw and exposed and bloody. Lydia grabbed a cloth, ran it under water, and pressed it to the cut in her head, hissing at the pain. Scott rummaged around for a first aid kit, finally locating it next to the shower, and pulled out a bacta patch for her head. She gratefully took it and stuck it over her wound, sighing in relief.

“That feels better already,” she murmured, mostly to herself, it seemed. 

“Why did they do this to you?” Scott asked. He knew the Empire was cruel— they’d burned his house down and killed his parents looking for Artoo just this morning— but Lydia hadn’t even had the plans anymore. What could have possibly justified them doing  _ this _ to her? 

Lydia paused, her hands slowly drifting from her head to the counter in front of her. “They wanted to know where the Rebel base is,” she said, voice muted, tone void of emotion. “And when I wouldn’t tell them— they blew up my planet.” She blinked, pausing. “I tried to lie to them, give them a different, older base— but they still destroyed my home.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Scott said, not knowing what else to say. “I can't even imagine what that must be like.”

“I’m not even technically from Alderaan,” Lydia told him, still looking down at her hands, expression blank, not meeting Scott’s eyes. “At least I wasn’t born there, that I know. I never met my actual parents. I was a war orphan. But Natalie and my grandmother Lorraine took care of me my whole life— they were my real family, even if we weren't actually related. They taught me everything I know—my mother was a senator, and my grandmother was the queen of Alderaan. Born there or not, I was their princess. And it was my home.” 

Scott stayed quiet, sensing that there was nothing he could really say, but that she needed someone to listen. Someone there to assure her she wasn’t as alone as she felt right now, still reeling after the loss of her planet and culture and people. 

“I think I might take a shower, before we get to Yavin,” she finally said, filling the silence.“I've been sitting in that cell for days, and I still smell like garbage.”

“Of course,” Scott said, standing up. “I should probably check on Stiles, anyways. Make sure he doesn't accidentally steer us into another Death Star.”

Lydia smiled faintly. It was evident she was much more devastated than she was letting on— not that Scott blamed her. He was still aching from the loss of his family, and he knew, once he got somewhere and sat down, let the adrenaline wear off, the grief and guilt and  _ pain,  _ blinding, burning pain, would wash over him. He knew that was what Lydia needed right now— time to herself, to mourn the life she had lost. 

Scott made his way quietly back to the cockpit, leaving Lydia alone in the ‘fresher. Chewbacca wasn't in his seat, but Stiles was, feet propped up on the dash, leaning back in the captain's chair. Scott sunk into the empty seat next to him, and Stiles glanced over at him.

“Is she okay?” he asked, glancing at Scott with a look of concern.

“Yeah, she's fine,” Scott replied. “She'll need a real doctor once we get somewhere, but the bacta patch seemed to do it for now.”

“Good,” Stiles said, looking out the window, some of the worry leaving his eyes, though his brow was still furrowed in concern. Scott almost laughed at how evident it was that Stiles actually cared about her, despite what he had said when Scott had wanted to go rescue her. 

“I can’t believe—” Stiles started, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, I  _ can,  _ I saw it, but— drilling holes in people’s heads?” 

“The Empire is horrible,” Scott agreed, hanging his head. His voice sounded hollow, he noticed. It was starting to feel real again, the loss of his parents and his mentor. 

Stiles immediately turned, his eyes trained on Scott, mouth parted. “Kest, Scott, I forgot,” he said. “With the— escape and everything. I’m sorry about Derek. And your family.” 

Scott nodded slowly, trying to focus on anything other than the dull, aching twist in his stomach, willing himself not to collapse on the floor. That’s what he felt like doing— laying down and never moving again. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was his family home up in flames, or Derek with a lightsaber through his chest. It was getting to be too much. 

“I get how Lydia feels,” Scott said, voice empty, eyes trained on his lap. “I’ve got no one left, anywhere.” 

“That’s not true,” Stiles said, furrowing his brow again. “You’ve still got me.” 

Scott looked up at that, caught off guard at Stiles’s words. Stiles glanced sheepishly at Scott, before looking away, his eyes darting from the window, back to Scott. “Well, I spent the day running from the Empire—  _ literally _ — with you. I guess that kind of makes us friends, right?”

Scott realized, then, that despite his hard exterior and biting sarcasm, Stiles really was a good guy. Stubborn, aggravating, and a pain, sure, but he  _ had _ followed Scott on a poorly planned rescue mission to save a girl he'd never met, and now he was risking his life to get them to a rebel base. He'd voluntarily distracted the Stormtroopers in the hall, and he'd saved Scott's life from the blasters before getting on the Falcon, and he'd looked ready to murder someone when he found out Lydia had a hole in her head. He was callous and sarcastic and rude, but his heart was definitely in the right place. And Scott could see the insecurity on his face— despite the appearance he put on, he was a person who had never had many friends— just like Scott.

Scott made the immediate decision that if Stiles wanted to be his friend, then so it was.

“Yeah,” Scott replied, grinning, that bleak feeling of being completely alone ebbing a little bit. “We are friends.”

Stiles grinned back, giving Scott a genuine smile.

“So,” Scott said, facing forward and looking at the stars racing past in front of them. “You’re ex-Imperial?” he asked, recalling something Stiles had said earlier on the Death Star. Stiles stiffened, his face going blank, and Scott realized that may not have been the best thing to ask about.

“Sorry,” Scott apologized. “You don’t have to talk about it.” 

“No, it’s— yeah, I graduated from the Academy,” Stiles said, shaking his head slightly. “I never joined for political reasons.” He shrugged. “I was a starving, homeless kid on the streets of Corellia, and when the Empire offered me food and a bed—” he trailed off. “I left about a year after graduating. Got the Falcon, started smuggling. Chewie and I have been doing this ever since.” 

“Rescuing captive princesses from Imperial war stations and ferrying fugitive Jedi across the galaxy?” Scott joked. Stiles smirked. 

“No. I have never done  _ anything _ like this before.” 

“But you’re glad you rescued her.” 

Stiles shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant. “Yes, I’m glad an innocent person wasn’t executed.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” Scott replied. “I saw the way you looked at her. And I can hear your heart racing whenever she talks to you.” 

“I’m sorry,  _ what?”  _

“I have supernatural hearing,” Scott said, as if he completely understood how that worked, and hadn’t just learned about it earlier today.

“You know what, I take it back. I’m  _ not _ glad I rescued her, and I definitely  _ don’t _ want to be your friend anymore, Scotty. Nope, no way.” 

“Nice try,” Scott laughed. “You didn't answer my question.”

“What do you want me to say?!” Stiles asked, helpless. “Yeah, she's beautiful—  _ really _ beautiful, and witty, and smart— that doesn't mean I  _ like her,”  _ Stiles defended, looking at Scott.

Scott just grinned.

“Okay, well, it doesn't matter. She's a princess. And a politician. And a  _ Rebel,”  _ Stiles said. 

“And?” Scott questioned, glancing at Stiles.

“And? I don't know. I'm just a smuggler.” He glanced out the window again, staring into space. “I mean, you think a guy like me would seriously have a chance with a girl like her?”

He looked back at Scott, his voice semi-serious.

Scott laughed. “You’re probably right. It would take you ten years to convince her to give you a chance.”

Stiles laughed too. “Fifteen, probably. Maybe I should come up with a plan.”

“I'll help,” Scott volunteered. “As you can see from my rescue mission, I'm really good at coming up with plans.”

They both laughed together, glancing out the large windows, as the Falcon sped through hyperspace, closer and closer to Yavin 4. For the first time since they’d gotten off the Death Star, Scott didn’t feel like he might be crushed alive by the grief and guilt hanging over him. Instead, he felt lighter. Like maybe there was a little more hope in the galaxy. 

Lydia rejoined them a little while later, her hair darker and wet, still up in its buns.

“We almost there?” she asked, sinking into the chair behind Stiles's and smoothing the skirt of her dress.

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “We'll be ready to exit hyperspace in a couple minutes. Chewie!” he hollered into a commlink on the dash. “Quit napping and get up here; we're almost there!” Chewie responded with a disgruntled growl.

Scott stood from the copilot's chair and took the seat behind it, so Chewie would have his seat back when he got there. The wookiee walked into the cockpit a moment later, howling something at Stiles.

“Yes, I'm  _ aware _ it's been a long day, thank you,” Stiles retorted. “We're almost there; start getting us ready to exit hyperspace, okay?” Chewie grumbled something back, and Stiles chuckled in response, but Scott didn't understand the joke.

Artoo whistled from the corner, reminding them he was still there. Lydia smiled fondly at the droid. “Almost there, Artoo. Don't worry,” she assured him.

“What's on that thing, anyway?” Stiles said, glancing quickly at the droid.

“I'm not really sure I should tell you,” Lydia retorted. Stiles stopped dead, an offended look on his face.

“Listen, your worship, I nearly died—  _ multiple times _ — trying to get that thing to you, and you to this base. I think I deserve to know what's on the dumb thing.”

Lydia sighed, staring daggers at the captain. “It's a technical readout of that battle station,” she responded reluctantly. “We're hoping to analyze it and find a weakness we can use to destroy it.”

Stiles snorted. “Sounds like a suicide mission. Good luck.”

Lydia rolled her eyes again, but didn't comment. Scott watched as Stiles and Chewie began flicking switches, expertly piloting them out of hyperspace— the stars were becoming dots again, not lines, and then they were soaring through open air, approaching one of the moons orbiting a planet that must have been Yavin. They got closer to the moon, and Scott couldn’t help but stare in wonder— the whole moon was covered in thick, dense trees, giving it the appearance of being cloaked in a velvety blanket of emerald green. It was the exact opposite of the way Tatooine had looked from space: Yavin 4 was lush and full of life, while Scott’s home planet looked barren and dry from miles above.

“They won't lower the shield without knowing who we are,” Lydia said. “Let me on the commlink.”

Stiles pretended to be appalled at being bossed around in his own ship by a tiny redheaded girl, but he gave her the commlink, and she spoke to the commander below. He directed them to a docking bay, and as they descended to the surface, Scott caught sight of a wide clearing among the vegetation, flat from landing pads and runways, dotted with weathered Rebellion ships and star fighters. Before he knew it they were touching down, and Stiles was ushering them all off board. 

As they walked down the Falcon's ramp, Scott's head whipped around, drinking in every detail. There were trees, and grass, and plants— everything was so  _ alive.  _ A giant stone temple sprawled out in front of them, covered in moss and vines—it looked thousands of years old, and yet from the hustle and bustle around it, and the herds of people rushing through the huge bay doors, Scott could tell this was their headquarters. A misty evening air hung over the forest terrain, shrouding the top of the stone structure, and Lydia smiled, taking a deep breath of fresh air once she was off the ship.

Stiles smirked at Scott. “Pretty different from Tatooine, huh?”

“It's so  _ green,” _ Scott replied, still looking around.

“Scott, Stiles,” Lydia called, beckoning them towards the door into the base. “Either come in now or get locked outside.”

“Calm down, kest, we're coming,” Stiles grumbled back. He jerked his head at Chewie, and he followed them into the base behind Lydia, the droids trailing after Scott.

Scott almost stopped dead inside too.

The room they had entered was a gigantic hangar— at least a hundred meters long and wide, with tall ceilings and huge bay doors that evidently could open to allow the fighter ships parked inside out into space. There were people everywhere— fighter pilots in bright orange suits, commanders and troops, people walking quickly with datapads, droids and mechanics and just— Scott didn't think he'd seen so many people in one place in his life. It was incredible to know that all these sentients, from every different part of the galaxy— all of them believed in a better future, were willing to fight to defend the freedom of the galaxy. There was a loud hum of people talking and machines whirring and droids whistling and holopads beeping and Scott was so overwhelmed that he almost didn't hear Chewie growling and Artoo beeping and Stiles laughing and a loud gasp—

_ “Lydia?”  _ An amazed voice called, and Lydia let out a grateful sigh next to Scott. A woman was rushing towards them, in military fatigues, her dark hair falling over her shoulder in a silky curtain.

“General Morell,” Lydia replied, grinning before the woman grabbed her shoulders, a relieved grin on her face. Lydia grinned back as the woman dropped her arms. “I’m so glad you were off world,” she continued, and Scott realized this must be a fellow Alderaanian.  

“Not as glad as we are to see you’re okay,” General Morell said. “We were worried, and when we got the distress signal from the Tantive IV, we feared the worst. Chancellor Deaton and General Finch will want to see you; they figured the whole ship was destroyed.”

“They destroyed the ship, but they kept me captive,” she told the general breathlessly. “Is there any word? From my mother, or—?”

General Morell’s smile immediately disappeared, and Lydia looked like she was going to cry. “Princess, I'm so sorry, they were both on world during…” The general trailed off.

“It's my fault,” Lydia whispered, and Scott could see tears in her green eyes. “They were looking for the base, and I told them Dantooine, but they destroyed Alderaan anyway—”

“Your Highness,” Morell said sternly. “It is  _ not _ your fault. The Empire did this, and that is why we're here, fighting them. Alderaan is  _ their _ fault, not yours.”

Lydia nodded slowly, her face steeling, suddenly void of emotion. Morell looked away from the princess, noticing Scott and Stiles for the first time.

“Who are your friends, princess?” The general asked, her perfect brow arched.

“Oh,” Lydia said, shaking her head, as if she’d forgotten about the two boys and the wookiee lurking behind her. “This is General Marin Morell. General, this is Captain Stiles Solo, and his first mate, Chewbacca,” she said, nodding towards Stiles. The general nodded her head in greeting. “And this is Scott Skywalker. They saved my life, General,” she said, smiling softly at all three of them.

“I appreciate it,” Morell responded, smiling slightly at the group. “And welcome to our base.” She turned back to Lydia. “The plans?”

“On this droid,” Lydia said, beckoning Artoo closer. “We need to retrieve them and then have them analyzed as soon as possible. If there's a weakness, we have to act now. I think the Empire might have tried to follow us here.”

“Of course,” General Morell said. She beckoned someone over, before sending them off with Artoo.

“You look starved, Lydia,” the general said, resting her hands on the princess’s shoulders and looking at her with worry. “You all do. Come to the mess hall, we'll get you something to eat.”

Scott's stomach growled in agreement. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't eaten since his early breakfast this morning. He exchanged a glance with Stiles, who shrugged, and they followed behind Lydia, venturing deeper into the rebel base. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Sorry for the break last week, guys. And sorry this is a day late! I've been procrastinating packing to go back to school, and I'm now realizing what a horrible plan that was. 
> 
> Anyways, only two more chapters after this one! I can't wait to start posting the next story. After this one, this series gets AGGRESSIVELY Stydia-centric. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy! As always, I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you want to chat!! :)

This day  _ really _ wasn't going as Stiles had planned.

As he sat sandwiched between Chewie and Scott at a long table in the mess hall, both of whom were inhaling the rations in front of them like they hadn't eaten in years, the Princess across from them, scarfing down food in a much more eloquent manner, he thought about earlier this morning, when he had laughed with Chewie about this job being a breeze.

Good to know he could no longer rely on his intuition.

Stiles pushed his food around on his plate. The bland rations reminded him of his Academy days— memories he'd rather not relive, if he could avoid it. Still, he was hungry, so he slowly ate the food anyway.

“Princess Lydia,” a voice said, and everyone looked up from their plates. An officer was standing behind Lydia, looking at the ragtag group. “The Hale girl was telling the truth— we found something in the plans. There's a meeting in a few minutes, in the holoroom.” 

“Thank you,” Lydia said, putting down her fork and standing up. Stiles sat frozen in his seat, unsure what to do. Lydia looked from him to Scott, before asking, “Well, are you coming?”

Stiles already knew Scott was going to say yes before enthusiastically following the princess to the meeting, as well as probably right into battle, so he begrudgingly stood up and followed too, Chewie behind them. He didn't know where the protocol droid had gone— not that he was complaining, because the dumb thing was the most melodramatic robot he'd ever met.

Lydia led them through several winding hallways before they entered a large white room, where groups of people sat facing a sizeable holoscreen. Stiles’s eyes darted over everyone in the room, taking in every detail— pilots, politicians, soldiers, all milling around, talking in hushed whispers. Everyone here had an air of importance, even the pilots that looked younger than he was. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable in his dirty white shirt, faded vest, and scuffed boots.

A woman in military uniform stood at the front of the room, gazing over the people sitting. Her eyes were wise and calculating, like she was drafting battle plans in her head, and her brown hair was pulled back in a tight bun. The general from earlier stood next to her, both of them holding themselves tall and stiff, barely moving. Immediately, Stiles felt like he was back at the Academy— being around military people nowadays always put him on edge. “Who is that?” Scott asked Lydia curiously, nodding towards the women at the front of the room. 

“That's General Finch,” she replied in a whisper, as the three of them took seats before the holoscreen. “She’s the commanding general here.”

Finch cleared her throat, and the anxious whisperings immediately stopped.

“Hello, everyone,” she said. “We've just had teams finish analyzing the readout of the battle station, provided by Princess Lydia—” Stiles suddenly felt everyone's eyes on the princess next to him— “which you can see here.” Sure enough, the model of the Death Star was magnified on the holoscreen, detailing the construction of the station. “The station is very heavily shielded, and its firepower is almost the same as that of our whole fleet combined. However, its defenses are designed to protect against a large scale assault. Single X-Wing fighters should be able to get past its shields.”

“Excuse me, General,” a fighter pilot piped up. “But what good will an X-Wing be against that?”

“Well, since the Empire doesn't consider single pilot fighters a threat, they've left a weakness vulnerable. There is a small thermal exhaust port, right below the main port. The port leads right to the main reactor. If a direct hit enters the port, a chain reaction will begin that should destroy the station.”

A murmur went up among the pilots. “Where's the port?” someone asked.

“Here,” Finch said, gesturing to the diagram on the screen. “The approach won't be easy. You'll have to navigate down this narrow trench, until you reach the target. The thermal exhaust port is only two meters wide.” 

“Two meters?” One of the pilots sitting in front of them said, skeptical. “That's way too small; it'll be impossible to make that shot.”

“It's not impossible,” Scott interjected. “I used to bullseye womp rats back home, and they’re about two meters long.” Stiles almost groaned— seriously, Scott had been in the Rebellion unofficially for maybe an hour, and  _ already  _ he thought he was the most knowledgeable one in the room? Though knowing Scott, he most likely was trying to honestly be helpful, not interject and tell an already existing squadron that they were wrong. 

The pilot in front of him turned to face them, his expression half annoyed and half alarmed. 

“Where are you from that you have rats that are  _ two meters _ long?” he asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Tatooine,” Scott supplied, missing the looks the other pilots in the room were throwing him— some annoyed, some impressed. 

“Okay, that would explain it,” he said, nodding succinctly. 

“Isaac,” Finch said, tone sharp, and the guy in front of them turned back to the front of the room, his mouth still twisted in a crooked smirk. 

“Sorry, General,” Isaac replied, voice more subdued. 

“Only a precise hit will set off the reaction, and the shaft is ray-shielded, so you'll be using proton torpedoes,” Finch continued. “We have received intel that the Death Star is moving to this sector currently.” An anxious whisper suddenly flared through the room. “As soon as it's close enough to the planet but still out of firing range, we'll launch our attack. We have a few hours before pilots need to be in the air.” Finch glanced around the room, at the war-hardened faces of the young pilots. “The rebellion depends upon this mission. This is our only hope. If we fail to stop this battle station—” she paused, her voice catching. “The galaxy may never see freedom again.”

The meeting broke up, and the pilots stood, milling around the room and conversing in anxious tones. Stiles didn't blame them. It seemed like tonight they'd be setting out on a death mission.

“Lydia, I want to help,” Scott said immediately. “I'm a pretty good pilot— and I have nothing to go back to anywhere. I want to stay and do what I can for the rebellion.”

Stiles could have seen that decision coming from a parsec away. Scott was a good guy— brave, and smart, and loyal— but after knowing him only a day, Stiles could already see he had a hero complex probably way too big for his own good.

“Of course,” Lydia said, grinning at Scott. “We'll talk to Finch right now— I should see Morell too, I don’t think I have an official commission, and we’ll find the commander of the pilots for you—” she turned to Stiles then, her green eyes wide and shining. Stiles froze for a minute, caught off guard by just  _ her _ — her eyes sparkling and happier than he'd seen all day, a stray wisp of strawberry blonde hair curling in front of her ear, her beautiful smile stretching across her face. He could sense the unspoken question in her glance, and for a fleeting second, he wanted to say yes, wanted to stay here and make her happy, just see her smile like this all the time—

But he knew he couldn't. Knew she was a princess, and he was a pirate, and he could never make any of this work, could never fight for the Rebellion— he was too selfish. And Jackson was waiting, with the promise of an even bigger bounty on his head.

“Don't look at me,” he said defensively. Lydia's smile disappeared. “I'm here for my money, then I'm gone.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, and Stiles almost took it back—  _ almost _ agreed to stay, just so she’d look happy again— after everything she’d been through today and during the past week or so, the last thing he wanted to do was make her more upset. 

But before he could say anything, Lydia’s ice-princess face was back on, expression hard, eyes steely. “The shields are already closed for the day,” she spat back, holding her chin high. “You can leave tonight, right before the fleet. After you get your reward.”

She turned on her heel and stormed down the hall. Scott threw a disappointed glance at him before following the princess.

_ We’re really going to leave them?  _ Chewie growled at Stiles, and Stiles rolled his eyes in frustration. “Not you too, okay? We’re already risking our lives going this long without paying Jackson back; I do  _ not _ need to risk my life fighting some doomed battle too.”

_ That’s a stupid excuse, and you know it, _ Chewie whuffed. Stiles groaned, making a face at his first mate.

“Come on. Let's go back to the Falcon and get ready to go. I want to be out of here as soon as possible.”

***

“Here's your fighter, right here,” Isaac told Scott, leading him through the cavernous hangar. Lydia had taken him to see the fleet leader, who had very quickly assigned him to a squadron. With all the chaos in the hangar, Isaac had volunteered to show Scott around, because their leader was busy. “A crew is going to start preparing it in a minute.” Isaac looked at Artoo, rocking excitedly by the base of the X-Wing fighter, then back up at Scott. “You sure you don't want a different droid? This one looks pretty beat up.”

“No, I'm good,” Scott said, putting his fighter helmet down next to Artoo and patting the top of the droid affectionately. “We've been through a lot together.”

“Okay,” Isaac said, running a hand through his coppery curls. “Well, our squadron will be taking off soon. Be prepared.” 

“Alright,” Scott said, nodding. He turned back to his new ship. Up on its landing stilts, it looked bigger than he’d ever imagined— a real starship, that  _ he _ would pilot. He reached up, running his hand over the smooth red-and-white hull, caught up in thought. He may be flying this into a probable suicide mission, but still— he was going to get to fly through the stars,  _ finally.  _

“Have you ever flown something like this before?” Isaac asked, and Scott looked over at him. The other boy didn’t look much older than him, but he was clearly war hardened, blasé about their upcoming mission— he had a bored, unimpressed look in his eye that told Scott he had seen plenty of battles. 

“No, but I’ve flown X-Wing simulators,” Scott responded. “They’re sort of similar, right?” 

Isaac shrugged. “In principle, I guess. I flew a lot of those in the Academy— I’m an Imperial defector. Just stick close to the squadron; they’ll cover you.” 

“Okay,” Scott agreed, glancing back up at the ship. 

“I have to go get my speeder ready,” Isaac said. “Good luck up there.” 

“You too,” Scott said, and Isaac turned, flashing another crooked grin at Scott. No sooner had he turned and left, Scott heard a voice calling his name. He whipped around, searching for the source of the voice. And there she was, looking at him, wearing a bright orange suit just like his and grinning widely.

_ “Harley?” _ Scott said in disbelief, running towards his longtime best friend from Tatooine. She leapt into his arms, laughing.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, tucking a loose piece of her dark hair behind her ear. “When did you even get here?” 

Scott laughed. “I got here about an hour ago.” Harley gave him a skeptical look, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrow, just like she used to do when they were haggling for parts at Tosche Station on Tatooine.  _ Gods,  _ he had missed her. “It's a really long story,” Scott continued. “I’m not sure I have time to do it justice before we take off.” 

She grinned at him giddily. “Are you flying today?” 

“Absolutely,” Scott responded. “I'll be right up there with you.”

“Well, that makes me feel better,” she said. “It'll be just like racing out to the dune sea back home, right?”

“Just like old times,” Scott agreed, grinning.

“Skywalker!” someone hollered. Scott turned around, and found himself face to face with his new commander. “You sure you'll be alright up there? You haven't been through any of our training.”

“Oh, he'll be fine, sir,” Harley assured the commander. “Scott's the best pilot in our part of the outer rim.”

The commander nodded, apparently trusting Harley's judgment. “Well, prepare yourselves, then. All pilots take off in less than ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” they both responded, and he walked away.

“Chewie, for the love of Go— kriffing  _ hell! Ow!” _

Scott whipped around to Chewie's growls of distress, seeing Stiles hobbling next to the Falcon, as Chewie scooped up a large crate next to him from the floor.

“Uh, I'll be back,” Scott told Harley. “I have to go see—”

“Don't worry about it,” she said, patting his arm. “I have to go prep my fighter. But when we get back, I want to hear all about how you got here.”

“Definitely,” Scott agreed, smiling. She grinned and disappeared to her ship, and Scott turned and looked at Stiles again, who was loading up his ship.

“So this is it?” Scott called, walking over to Stiles. “You've got your reward and you're leaving?”

Stiles looked up from the crates that he was loading on board.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “That was the plan. Get paid, get outta here. I have to pay back some old debts.” Stiles glanced at Scott, his expression softer. “You should come with us. You're pretty good in a fight— we could use you.”

Scott was bewildered by the offer, but the thought of running away made him angrier.

“I can't leave,” he said, aggravated. “These people need me. You should stay. You're a great pilot; they  _ need _ you out there—”

“I can’t stay here, Scott,” Stiles interrupted. He looked away from Scott, expression actually serious, eyes full of indecisiveness. “All these people, willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, do whatever it takes to help the galaxy? I’m not— I can’t—” he trailed off, frustrated. “I wish I could stay. But that’s not me, Scott. I’m not a hero.” 

“How do you know?” Scott demanded. “If you don’t stay and fight for what’s right, how can you know that?” 

“I don’t belong here, Scott,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “You do. You’ll be great out there. But I can’t stay here. I have my credits, and I’m going.” 

Scott could feel his frustration start to rise, despite trying to keep it under control. He looked away from Stiles, determined not to show how hurt he was—  _ finally, _ Scott made a friend, and he had to go take off, head for somewhere else the first chance he got. 

“I meant what I said earlier,” Stiles added, his tone serious, and Scott’s head whipped up, his eyes meeting Stiles’s. “Be careful out there, okay?” 

“You too,” Scott replied. If Stiles really did owe Jackson money— Scott knew how the Hutts worked. People who angered the Hutts were prone to disappearing, never to be seen again. Regardless of what Stiles’s opinion was when it came to facing the Empire, Scott still returned the sentiment— he liked Stiles, and he certainly didn’t want him to die. He gave Stiles one last nod, before turning and starting back towards his X-Wing. 

“Scott!” Stiles called, and Scott stopped, turning to face the other man.

Stiles had a meek look on his face. “May the Force be with you,” he offered, with a small grin. Scott gave him a little grin back, before turning back to his X-Wing.

Lydia was waiting for him there, at the base of the ship.

“What's wrong?” she asked immediately, worry on her face.

Scott shook his head. “I thought he'd stay,” he replied, glancing back at Stiles.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Don't worry about him, Scott, since he  _ clearly _ only worries about himself. He's not worth it.” She glanced at him, seriousness in her eyes. “You're leaving in a minute. Focus on that. Don't worry about Stiles.”

Scott nodded, surveying the bay. Already fighter pilots were getting in their speeders, ready to take off.

“Good luck,” Lydia said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “You'll be great.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, towards the command center, leaving Scott alone with his pounding heart, nerves beginning to twist in his stomach again. This was  _ crazy. _ He’d never even flown outside of Tatooine’s atmosphere, and now he was going up against a  _ Death Star  _ in combat? 

Scott took a deep breath, before climbing up the ladder into his fighter. He could do this. He could fly this ship, help the rebels, help the galaxy. As he settled into the ship’s seat, pulling the targeting computer towards him, crew members secured Artoo into the ship, making sure the fighter was all set.

“You're all clear, Skywalker,” one of the crew members told him. “Wait for the signal from your squadron leader before takeoff. Good luck.”

Scott nodded his thanks, trying to ebb his pounding heart. He pulled his helmet on as the top of the fighter was lowered down. The commlink in his helmet crackled to life.

“Red squadron, come in,” he heard his commander say. “The Death Star is within range. Prepare for takeoff.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter!! The next one is shorter, too-- it's more of an epilogue, sort of. 
> 
> On a side note, space battles are hard to write. 
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading! I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you want to chat. I'd love to hear what you think! Comments would literally power me through editing the rest of this series, so. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Come on Chewie, let's get out of here,” Stiles said to his first mate, piloting the Falcon out of the base's hangar. Chewie started to growl in response, but Stiles cut him off. “No. I don't wanna hear it. We're going back to Tatooine and paying off Jackson, before he sends someone worse than Donovan after us. Like Kate.” He shuddered at the thought.

The Falcon soared out of Yavin 4's atmosphere, and back into the velvety black of the galaxy. He could see the Death Star looming in the distance.

“Keep us far away from that thing. We are  _ not _ getting sucked in there again.”

Chewie howled, and Stiles looked up from the computer where he was entering Tatooine's coordinates. Stiles was about to ask what had caught the wookiee's attention, but then he saw— dozens of X-wing fighters were speeding by, directly towards the Death Star.

Scott was in one of those, risking his life for people he didn't even know.

Stiles watched as the fighters sailed past the Death Star's shields, and the close range guns opened fire. Jets of light shot from both sides. He could already see fighters going up in flames.

“There's no way,” he muttered. “They won’t be able to get through that trench without being shot down by TIE fighters. They're never gonna make it.”

Chewie howled glumly in agreement.

Stiles looked desperately at the scene in front of him. His instincts screamed for him to run, but a tiny voice in the back of his head (that sounded suspiciously like Scott's) said otherwise. Scott was down there, against that enemy fire. As annoyingly heroic and hell-bent on saving the galaxy as the guy was, Stiles had to admit Scott was a good guy. And it  _ had _ been nice, having a friend other than Chewie. Not that Stiles didn't love the wookiee like his brother, but Scott had been different. Stiles didn't want the guy dead, not by any means. Even if he had just set out on a suicide mission.

Stiles sighed, before glancing at his copilot. The look in Chewie's eyes made it seem like the wookiee already knew what Stiles was about to say.

“Wanna do something possibly heroic and definitely really stupid?”

For once, Chewie's roars weren't in protest.

***

Scott's heart wouldn't stop pounding.

“Red squadron, this is Red Leader; report in,” Scott's commander said over comms. Scott listened as all the other fighters rattled off their numbers as they sped towards the Death Star.

“Red 11, standing by,” Scott said, trying to keep his voice steady, still looking at the battle station in front of them.

“Look at the size of that thing,” he heard Harley say.

“Enough chatter, Red 3,” their commander snapped back. “Lock into attack position. Put deflectives on double front; we're headed through the magnetic field.”

They soared even closer to the station, until Scott could only see the side of the Death Star, and not the expanse of velvety sky on each side.

“Accelerate to attack speed,” Red Leader ordered. “Gold Leader, you in position?”

“We're all ready for our attack run, Red Leader,” Gold Leader replied.

“Perfect. We'll cut across and cover you, try to draw their fire. Red Squadron, follow me.”

“Fifteen standard minutes until the Death Star is in firing range of the base,” Lydia reported over the commlink, from below at the command center on Yavin 4. “Good luck, everyone. May the Force be with you.”

Scott followed his commander as they cut across the surface of the Death Star, drawing the fire from the station's defenses.

“They're so big, we can outmaneuver them easy,” Scott commented, spinning to avoid a blast.  _ This was like target practice in a simulator,  _ he told himself. Maybe if he pretended that the incoming blaster bolts were just a simulation, he wouldn’t feel as terrified as he did now. He spun away from an incoming bolt, pulling off a move he’d perfected in the flight simulators in Anchorhead. Harley clearly recognized the showy move, because she laughed over comms. 

“Agreed, Red 11,” Red Leader responded. “Stay low; try to take out the cannons.”

“I'm going in,” Scott reported, flying low and aiming for the cannons. He managed to take one out, but another turned and began firing on him.

“Scott, pull up!” his commander hollered. Scott pulled up, and felt the fighter shudder as a blast grazed the ship. Immediately Scott sobered up— this wasn’t a game, this was  _ real.  _ He could die. “Are you alright?” Red Leader asked.

“I'm fine,” Scott replied, his heart pounding, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I got grazed, but I should be okay. Artoo, see what you can do,” Scott told the droid.

“You’re okay, Scott,” Harley said, and Scott glanced down to see the flashing light on the control panel, indicating Harley had muted the group comms and was speaking to him only. “Just shake it off. You can do this.” 

Nodding, Scott piloted back towards the Death Star again. He hoped Harley was right, and that they  _ could _ do this— the whole galaxy was counting on them. 

***

Vader was pacing the halls, growing more agitated by the minute, when a general approached. Vader could tell immediately that he did not come bearing good news.

“Lord Vader,” the general said, falling into step with him. “The rebels are attacking in X wing fighters. They're too small for us to hit with the guns.”

“Prepare the pilots,” Vader ordered. “We'll have to take them out manually. And prepare my ship as well. I want to dispose of the Rebel scum personally.”

“Of course, my lord,” the general said, before hurrying off again.

***

“Careful, there's a lot of fire coming from the other side of that deflection tower,” Red Leader said. Scott glanced over at the gun tower, which was firing frantically in every direction.

“I'm on it,” Red 6 responded. “Someone cover me.”

Red 6 and 4 sped over to the tower, taking it out with a large blast of fire. “Careful!” Red Leader cried. “Red 6, pull up!”

“No, I can hold it!” Red 6 responded.

“Pull up! That gun tower is—”

But Red Leader cut off, as Red 6's last cries bled into static. Scott glanced over, and could see the remains of the X-Wing burning on the Death Star's surface. Immediately his stomach dropped, fear racing through him— sure, this was a battle, and there were bound to be some casualties, but— someone who had been in his squadron, on his team— they had been here, and now they just  _ weren’t. _ It was enough to terrify Scott and remind him again that this was real. Elsewhere, the notion of the rebellion was romantic, poetic even, but on the battlefield— these were people with home worlds and families and beliefs they were fighting for, slaughtered daily by the Empire. 

“Red Squadron,” a commander from the base said, interrupting over the comms. “We've just picked up new signals. There are enemy fighters coming in now.”

“There!” Scott said, spotting incoming TIE fighters behind the fleet. “Careful, Red 7, you've got one on your tail!”

Red 7 tried to dodge the enemy fire, but it was useless. “I'm hit!” he cried, before his fighter went up in flames as well. Scott’s heart pounded even faster. 

“Gold Leader, report on the attack,” Red Leader called over the comms, as Scott artfully sidestepped an oncoming burst of enemy fire. He zoomed up behind Harley's fighter, shooting down the TIE fighter pursuing her.

“Thanks, Skywalker,” she said into the comms, and Scott could practically see the familiar smile on her face.

“We can't hold them, Red Leader,” Gold Leader replied. “There are two TIE fighters and another fighter down here, they've already taken out my wingmen— I can't—”

Gold Leader's comms connection also ended in static. Scott knew what that meant by now.

“Seven minutes until the Death Star's in range,” Lydia reported over the commlink.

“We're going in for our attack run,” Red Leader reported. “Red 4, Red 9, cover me. The rest of you, take out those TIE fighters.”

“Scott, careful, you've got one on your tail!” someone called over comms. Scott immediately wove to the side and back and forth, but the TIE fighter couldn't be deterred. 

“I can't shake him!” Scott called desperately. “Harley, where are you?”

“I've got you, Scott,” Red 14 responded. Scott recognized Isaac’s voice over the comms.  A second later, his fighter was sailing past Scott, the TIE fighter behind him destroyed.

“Thanks, Isaac,” Scott replied gratefully. He glanced down at the ravine, where the other fighters were attempting to make their run.

“Careful, Red Leader, those TIE fighters are behind you!” Scott called into the commlink.

“We're almost there,” Red Leader responded. “I'm almost in range... Turning on my targeting computer now...”

“They're gaining!” Red 4 responded in a panicky voice. “The three fighters are almost on top of us! There's nowhere to go down here!”

“Hold on just a minute a more,” Red Leader responded desperately. “I'm almost there.”

Red 9 let out a strangled scream, followed by static.

“Almost there!” Red Leader muttered, as the gaining TIE fighters took out Red 4 as well.

“And it's away!” Red Leader called, zooming out of the trench.

“Did it go in?!” Lydia's panicky voice came over the commlink, from the base below. Scott had forgotten she could hear everything going on up here. 

“Negative,” Red Leader said, sounding dejected. “Just grazed the surface. Didn't go in.” There was a pause before he continued. “Most of the fleet's down, but Scott, you take your run. We might not have any time after that. They're almost in range of Yavin 4.”

“Okay,” Scott replied, steeling his nerves. This was their last chance. “Harley, Isaac, cover me?”

“Absolutely,” Harley responded immediately.

“We'll go full throttle,” Scott decided. “That should make it harder for the TIE fighters to catch us.”

“Will we be able to pull out in time at that speed?” Harley asked as they got into formation and entered the trench.

“Sure,” Scott replied, hoping he was right. “It'll be just like Beggar's Canyon at home.”

“Alright,” Isaac said. “Let's go.”

The trio sped down the trench, whipping past guns and laser cannons, until the incoming fire suddenly stopped.

“Careful, here come the Imperials,” Harley said over comms. Scott glanced behind him, and sure enough— they were closing in.

There were two TIE fighters, both flanking a third fighter in the middle, who was clearly the gunman. A good gunman too, because not even a minute later, Isaac’s ship was hit.

“I'm hit!” Isaac cried. “The ship's hanging in, but I can't stay with you at this speed!”

“It's fine, just get clear!” Scott replied. “Stay safe! Harley and I can finish this.”

“Okay,” Isaac replied, as he soared out of the trench and into clear space.

“I'm in range,” Scott informed Harley, turning on his targeting computer.

“I'll try to hold them off,” Harley responded. “Hurry.”

Scott pulled the computer closer to him, watching as the target grew closer and closer on the screen.

“Agh!” Harley cried, breaking Scott's concentration.

“What?” Scott called back. “Are you okay?”

“I'm okay, but I got hit. I'm too damaged to keep going. I can try to shield you until you get close enough, but I'm not sure how long my fighter will last.”

“No!” Scott responded. “Get clear. I'll be okay. I'm faster than these guys.”

“Are you sure, Scott?” Harley asked, voice worried. 

“I’m sure. Get to safety.”

“Alright,” she said, voice apprehensive, before she too pulled out of the trench and flew away.

Scott took a deep breath, focusing back on his targeting computer. Not far to go now. He tried to calm himself down, but his heart was racing. The fate of the Rebel Alliance, possibly the  _ whole galaxy,  _ was resting solely on his shoulders. 

“Scott,” a voice suddenly spoke in his ear. His head whipped to the side, but no one was there. It could have been his commlink, but it sounded like— like  _ Derek _ .

“Use the Force, Scott,” the voice spoke again, and listening this time, Scott decided it  _ must _ have been Derek. “Trust your instincts.”

A jet of green light shot past him, illuminating the cabin briefly against the inky night sky. The TIE fighters were gaining.

“Artoo, can you increase the speed at all?” Scott asked desperately. Artoo whistled back, before another blast made the fighter shudder. Artoo let out a mechanical scream, before going silent.

“I've lost Artoo!” Scott cried, before realizing there were no pilots left to hear him. He dodged more fire, while still trying to stay on track, his heart pounding. He was up here alone. This was all on him. 

“I can't,” he said desperately, glancing again at the gaining TIE fighters. “They're gaining too fast...”

“Scott,  _ use the Force,” _ Derek's voice insisted again. Scott tried to tamp down his nerves, focus his mind, and channel that buzzing energy feel through him. He thought of his parents, of Derek, of everyone on Alderaan— all the people he was doing this for. He couldn't see his reflection, but he could feel his eyes burn bright yellow.

The Force heightened his senses, and Scott again was amazed at the detail he could see, the far, distant blaster fire that sounded clear as day— his vision sharper, he could practically see the trajectory of his torpedos. Derek’s words rang in his head, to use the Force, and Scott paused a moment, staring at the targeting computer, before hitting the power button and shutting it off.

“Scott, your targeting computer's off,” the commander at the base said. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Scott replied. “I'm almost there.”

He could feel the Force flowing through him, electric and alive. Scott suddenly recognized another presence behind him— something he recognized from being on the Death Star.  _ Vader _ .

Darth Vader was the middle gunman behind him.

The target was almost in sight. But Darth Vader was gaining— he wouldn't make it in time—

Suddenly, a blast behind him went off, as one of the TIE fighters flanking Vader exploded. Over his commlink, Scott heard a familiar whoop, followed by a more familiar growl of triumph.

_ “Stiles?” _ Scott asked incredulously. The Falcon was soaring overhead, and it took aim at the gunner in the middle. The TIE fighter swooped to the side, trying to protect Vader, but instead pushed him out of the trench, his ship spinning out into open space. The other TIE fighter was struck by Stiles's shot, and burst into flames.

“You're clear, Scott!” Stiles called. “Now make your shot, so we can get out of here!”

“The Death Star's in range of the base!” Lydia cried over comms. “Hurry, Scott!”

The target was almost right in front of him. Scott took a breath, focusing on the exhaust vent with his wolf eyes. Everything was sharper, clearer— he could practically see the torpedoes sailing through the air. 

Eyes locked straight ahead, Scott fired, and the torpedoes soared directly into the shaft.

Immediately he pulled up, racing away from the Death Star as fast as he possibly could, back to where Isaac and Harley hovered on the outskirts of the battle. Seconds later, the universe seemed to still as the Death Star exploded, a brilliant display of fire and sparks against the black expanse of the galaxy.

“Great shot, Scotty; that was incredible!” Stiles cried. Scott still wasn't exactly sure how he'd hacked into the Rebels' comms channel, but he definitely wasn’t complaining— Stiles had saved his life. 

Scott relaxed, leaning back in his seat as he slowly turned the fighter back to Yavin, reentering the atmosphere and soaring down towards the base, past the landing towers. Harley and Isaac followed him back into the hangar— the rest of the Red and Gold squadrons had been shot down.

Scott threw the roof of the fighter up the second he stopped, standing up and clambering down the ladder that the crewmen had just rolled over to his fighter, anxious to be on the ground and safe again. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, and he was half sure his eyes were still bright yellow.

“Scott!” a voice cried, and Scott saw Lydia shoving her way through the crowd, still in the dirty white dress they'd escaped the Death Star in. She looked  _ exhausted,  _ skin still too pale, eyes a little dim, but her smile was radiant, full of triumph.

“Lydia!” he called back, and she immediately ran into his arms, laughing and smiling.

“That was amazing,” she said, breaking the hug and grinning up at him. “You saved us all. Thank you.”

Scott smiled back, about to tell her absolutely, anything he could do, but he was interrupted by another voice calling his name.

“Scott!” Stiles called, jogging over to him and Lydia. Chewie followed behind, howling happily.

“Stiles!” Scott said, grabbing the smuggler into a hug. Stiles clapped him on the back. “Thank you! I knew you'd come back,” Scott said, giving Stiles a smug look.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I figured I probably shouldn’t let you get yourself killed.”

Lydia grinned at Stiles. “I guess there  _ is _ more to you than money,” she commented, her eyebrows raised, but her smile wide. Stiles grinned back.

“I guess so, your worship.”  

“Oh no!” Scott heard over his shoulder, and he turned to see C-3PO, in despair. It became evident why quickly— the crew was lowering Artoo from the ship, and he looked beat up and burnt out from the enemy fire he'd taken. Scott felt bad, having momentarily forgotten the little droid.

“You'll be able to fix him, right?” Threepio asked desperately. “Oh, you must,  _ please.” _

“He'll be fine,” the tech officer assured the droid. “We'll get to work on him right away. Don't worry, we've seen much worse.”

Scott sighed in relief. He knew Artoo was just a droid, but he had become pretty attached to him in the past couple days.

“Oh, thank the maker,” Threepio said, before turning to Scott. “Sir, if any of my circuits or gears will help, I'll gladly donate them.”

Scott chuckled at the melodramatic droid. “He'll be okay, Threepio. Don't worry.”

Chewie growled again in excitement, and Scott turned back to his friends. His  _ friends _ . On Tatooine, he'd never had many— mainly just Harley— but it felt great, having people to count on, who cared about him and would risk their lives for him— and people he would do the same for. He glanced from Lydia, her eyes sparkling with happiness, to Stiles, a wide smile across his face, to Chewbacca, who was howling with joy. Scott definitely thought this was the happiest he'd been in a long time. And this was where he belonged.

“So, if you're both sticking around,” Scott said, turning to Chewie and Stiles, who met his eyes. Stiles's smile disappeared, and he looked half scared, like he thought Scott was about to rip into him for leaving. “You're going to have to teach me Chewie’s language.”

Stiles's grin came back instantly, and he tipped his head back, laughing.

“Me too,” Lydia agreed. “I speak a lot of languages, but unfortunately, Shyriiwook is not one of them.”

“Definitely,” Stiles agreed, and Chewie howled what was probably the same sentiment. “I don't think we're going anywhere any time soon.”

For a moment, all four of them stood together, smiling and full of exuberance from the battle just won. But then Lydia stumbled, and the relief of escaping imminent death immediately vanished, as the princess fell forward, Stiles rushing to catch her and keep her from falling to the floor. 

“Lydia?” Scott asked, voice full of alarm, heart pounding again. The princess whimpered softly, struggling to regain her footing from her place in Stiles’s arms. 

“Careful, your worship,” Stiles said, but the nickname wasn’t mocking this time, like it had been when he’d used it on the Death Star— Stiles’s voice was so soft, gentle; Scott could practically see the worry rolling off Stiles. 

“We need to get her to the medicenter,” Scott said, voice urgent, as Lydia’s eyes slid shut, her breathing suddenly shallow. “Now.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is! The final chapter. One down, three to go! I'm gonna take a week off next week to get a head start on editing, but the next week the one-shot that takes place between this one and the Empire Strikes Back rendition will be up. And then there will be another week off because I'm going to London, and then ESB begins! As does the onslaught of Stydia. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's read through this whole thing! I hope you're enjoying this story and I'd love to hear what you think! If you want to share any theories for the next ones with me too (or just squeal about our otp together) I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter. Again, a huge thanks to my sister magicath17 for her constant support and to Allison im2old4thisotp for being a wonderful beta. I couldn't have done it without you guys! 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Lydia finally opened her eyes, all she could see was a sea of white. 

Slowly, the room around her came into hazy focus— white walls, warm lights, soft beeping sounds echoing in her ears— as she regained consciousness, she realized she was in the medicenter. 

The dull ache in the side of her skull was almost completely gone, and even the back of her neck was no longer sore and achy, just mildly uncomfortable. Her hair was clean, braided over to the side, away from her wound, and her dress was new, her body tucked under bright white sheets— this whole room was white, clean, sterile. She felt almost as if what had happened on the Death Star had been washed away from her. 

_ Almost.  _

Her time spent on the Death Star also felt hazy, fuzzy, only half there, like it had been a long-lasting nightmare. It seemed like eternities ago that she had been haphazardly rescued, not yesterday. Trying to remember specific details of what had happened just ended in foggy, vague memories, probably because of all the drugs still in her system. All she could remember, with her memory still fuzzy, was the endless pain, shadows of needles and drills and other tortures her mind was trying to block from memory. 

Lydia knew eventually the fog would clear, the painkillers would leave her system, and the memories would all come rushing back in perfect clarity. Lydia  _ hated  _ not knowing things, but she knew with certainty this hazy period was one she’d rather forget about completely.

Someone groaned next to her, and Lydia jumped, realizing she wasn’t alone in the medicenter. All the beds in front of her were empty, pristine white sheets folded neatly, pillows untouched— no one, save Scott, Harley, and Isaac, had made it back from the battle over Yavin at  _ all,  _ let alone injured. 

Slowly, Lydia turned to face the offender, her vision still slightly hazy. Her jaw almost dropped when she realized who it was— curled up in a stiff-backed chair, not a bed, limbs everywhere, hair a disheveled mess, mouth hanging open— it was  _ Stiles. _ And he was fast asleep. 

Lydia gave herself a moment to study him while he slept: he had clearly been curled up in this chair for a significant amount of time. His neck was at an odd angle, his cheek half pressed against his shoulder, long eyelashes brushing his cheekbones as his eyelids fluttered. He grumbled quietly in his sleep again, his mouth hanging open wider, and Lydia noticed his vest slung over the back of the chair, his blaster sitting on the floor next to him, not in its holster at his waist. 

“Stiles?” she whispered, suddenly overcome with the very real necessity to not be alone anymore. She had been alone on the Death Star with only injuries and pain to keep her company— even if it was this money-grubbing scoundrel who had done a very shoddy job of rescuing her. Although— her memory cleared a little, the fog lifting ever so slightly. He had come back, hadn’t he? He and Scott had stopped the Death Star. 

“Uh huh, mmm,” Stiles mumbled, eyes still shut. Lydia whispered his name again, louder this time. “Wha?” he managed, sitting up ever so slightly, his eyes fluttering as he regained consciousness. Seeing Lydia awake must have woken him up enough, because his limbs flailed as he attempted to sit completely upright in his chair, wincing as he moved his neck off his shoulder. 

“Hey,” Stiles said quietly, eyes softening, after his flailing stopped and he could sit normally. He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head slightly, and Lydia wondered how long he had been here, waiting for her to wake up. “How are you feeling?” 

“Okay,” she responded truthfully, her voice rough from lack of use. How long had  _ she _ been here? 

“It’s been three days,” Stiles said, seemingly reading her mind. “The med droid said you were dehydrated, malnourished, and had a lot of toxins in your system. They’ve had you sedated since after the battle.” 

“They voluntarily told you all that?” Lydia asked. Weren’t med centers supposed to have patient non-disclosure agreements and such— even Rebellion hospitals? 

“Well, uh,” Stiles stuttered. “I may have been eavesdropping.” 

Lydia frowned. “How long have  _ you _ been here?” 

Stiles glanced away sheepishly. “Uh— since you got here?” 

Lydia’s eyebrows raised in shock. “Scott’s come down a bunch too,” Stiles rushed to add. His eyes met hers again, and Lydia froze momentarily. Her vision was becoming sharper, mind clearer, and looking into Stiles’s eyes now— she hadn’t noticed earlier what a unique color they were: like amber, or whiskey, almost with a honey-colored hue underneath, and while the rest of him seemed closed-off, callous and sarcastic, his eyes were warm and expressive and full of emotion. She could see how concerned for her he was in those eyes, framed by unfairly long lashes, staring up at her innocently, and it caught her off guard. He was looking at her like he was scared of her breaking, and while she still felt the ghost of the Empire’s torture, the way his eyes were fixed on her suggested something like— 

And then the memories came flooding back, and it hit her. 

_ Alderaan.  _

Her body sagged as it all rushed back, all jumbled together and foggy, almost dreamlike. Daehler’s threats. Vader’s commands. And the fiery wreckage of her planet against the inky sky. 

“It’s really gone, isn’t it?” she asked Stiles, though it was half rhetorical. She knew, in her heart and in her gut, that her home world was no more. 

She could have easily been talking about the Death Star— that had been their main focus before, anyways— but Stiles seemed to understand what she meant, because he was silent, bowing his head, looking away from her. “Yeah,” he finally said, voice hoarse, glancing up briefly to meet her eyes. 

Lydia found she couldn’t cry, half because it still didn’t feel real, and half because she didn’t think she had any tears left in her. 

“I’m so sorry, Lydia,” Stiles breathed, sitting forward farther in his chair. “You’re gonna be okay,” he added, voice soft, and she got the sense from it that he really didn’t know what else to say. What else  _ was _ there to say? Her whole world was now a figment of the past. 

“I—” she started, the word shaking. Taking a breath, she steadied her voice, starting again, trying to articulate the gaping, empty hole in her chest. “How do you recover from losing something more important to you than anything else you’ve ever known?” she asked, voice hollow. She didn’t expect an answer— she just needed to say it out loud, have someone hear it. But Stiles answered her anyway, furtively glancing up, meeting her eyes before his darted away again. 

“I don’t know,” he told her truthfully, voice soft again. “I’ve never had something like that to lose in the first place.” 

Lydia looked over at him again, surprised— he glanced at her quickly, before his eyes darted away again, unwilling to keep her gaze. He tried to hide it, but she caught a glimpse of the sorrow and pain behind his eyes, masked in his emotionless expression. Even from the softness of his voice, she could tell that wherever he had come from, whatever he had been through prior to this, was nothing he ever wanted to remember. He  _ had _ said he was ex-Imperial, and that he wasn’t a fan of the Empire. Clearly his past was nothing he was fond of. Whatever tough-guy, smuggler facade Stiles was putting on, Lydia knew that what was actually below was a person who was no stranger to pain, who had been abused by the Empire too, and who  _ still _ would stand up for his friends and do the right thing. 

Lydia wasn’t particularly interested in knowing the callous smuggler who had rescued her from the Death Star, but this man—  _ this _ man she could see herself wanting to know better. 

***

Scott could hear the ceremonial music even through the closed doors.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles said, shaking his head. “This is completely insane.”

Scott just laughed at his friend as the doors to the hall slid open.

The entire Rebel base was assembled in the huge hall, standing in perfect formation, all eyes on him, Stiles and Chewie— fighter pilots, commanders, politicians, directors, crew members, everyone. Scott was almost as nervous as he had been flying in to destroy the Death Star now that he was being honored  _ for _ destroying the Death Star.

But then he saw Lydia, standing on the platform at the end of the aisle, at the far end of the hall. She looked considerably healthier than she had a week ago in the hospital— she was in a new dress, floaty and white, with her hair braided and twisted up on her head into an elaborate knot. Generals Morell and Finch, as well as Chancellor Deaton, stood to one side of her, with Harley and Isaac on the other side. Harley gave Scott a wicked grin as he started the walk down the aisle.

The room just seemed to grow longer the closer to Lydia he walked, but Scott glanced over at Stiles, who was grinning at the spectacle, and couldn't help but grin as well. Finally, they reached the few steps leading to the platform, and stopped a step below Lydia. She was wearing heels now, but even then, and a whole step below her, she was still barely taller than Stiles.

Her face looked prim and proper— much more like the girl in the hologram than the girl he'd gotten to know over the past few days. Her cheeks were full of color again, not deathly pale, like they had been in the medicenter, and Scott could hear Stiles’s heart thumping in his chest as she surveyed them. Her eyes met Scott's, and he couldn't help it, he grinned— and she did too, her brilliant smile breaking her politician face and making her eyes shine.

General Finch approached with three medals— one for each of them. Lydia took the first and looped it over Chewbacca's neck, and the wookiee growled in approval. Lydia grinned before taking the second and placing it around Stiles's neck. Their eyes met, and Scott saw Stiles give Lydia a grin so soft, so full of emotion, that he could have sworn he heard  _ Lydia’s _ heart skip a beat. But then Stiles’s smile morphed into a smirk, and the princess rolled her eyes and huffed at him, despite the grin still on her face.

Lydia took the last medal and approached Scott. He bowed his head as she placed the heavy medal around his neck, before raising his eyes and smiling at her again. He caught Harley's eye from her spot behind Lydia, and she grinned at him too. R2-D2, fully repaired, whistled from his place on the side of the stage, next to C-3PO, who had been shined and polished until he gleamed gold. Chewie let out another roar, and the trio turned to face the assembly.

Scott looked around the crowd of people watching them as the room burst into applause. Happiness swelled inside of him. This base, this room— full of people who cared about him, would protect him, and would let him help fight for their cause— this was where he belonged. These people who believed there was more than oppression, that the galaxy could be free from tyranny again, like it was so long before— these were his people.

He felt Lydia's hand on his shoulder, and his smile widened as he glanced between her, Stiles, and Chewie. The cost of getting here had been great— he had lost his parents, and Derek, the only real connection to his father he'd had— but the pain of their loss wasn’t as sharp and all-consuming anymore. He could feel their presences in the Force, and he knew they'd be with him always.

Scott glanced between the assembly and his friends again. For the first time in his life, he felt like he truly belonged somewhere. He hoped that feeling never left. 

Despite the battle ahead, the hardships and losses and pain that were sure to come with this fight— there was nowhere else Scott would rather be than here. 


End file.
